


Lightning in a Bottle

by Gruoch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Publicity Stunts, Recreational Drug Use, Superhero roommates, awkward sex talks w ur drama queen mentor, broke AF college student Peter Parker, canon who? soft comics crossover, did i write a fake dating rom-com?, disaster dirtbag w a heart of gold, secret identity crisis, two morons one shriveled braincell, yes i did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gruoch/pseuds/Gruoch
Summary: Peter takes the tablet and looks down at the screen, where a picture of Spider-Man intimately entangled in a passionate embrace with Johnny Storm is displayed across the majority of the Daily Bugle’s home page. TORCH CAUGHT IN SPIDER-MAN’S WEB, the headline reads, bracketed by spider and flame emojis.Peter looks back up at Tony, who is still staring at him completely stone-faced.Tony reaches across the island and taps the screen. “So. What do you have to say about that?”“Well. For one, I’m a little disappointed with the headline,” Peter offers.Tony lets his chin drop against his chest, momentarily defeated, before taking a deep breath and once more skewering Peter with a hard look. “You could have at least given me some warning that the two of you are...I mean, I had mysuspicions,but—”“You’re misconstruing the situation. Spider-Man and the Torch are dating,” Peter explains. “Johnny and I are just friends.”“Boy, you’re really leaning hard into this whole alter ego thing, aren’t you?” Tony deadpans. “How’s that working out for you?”
Relationships: Peter Parker & Johnny Storm, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Johnny Storm
Comments: 149
Kudos: 964
Collections: god tier spider-man fics





	Lightning in a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seekrest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekrest/gifts).



> For seekrest and the five other spideytorch fans in this fandom XD. I hope this fic brings a little levity to these stressful times. Thanks for your endless cheerleading, Seek! You’re a gem, my friend.

“How does it look?” Peter asks from his supine position on the battered couch in his apartment. “Is it bad? Because it hurts like hell.”

His roommate lifts the bag of ice he’s holding to Peter’s face and leans in close, his brows furrowed. 

“Honestly, man?” Johnny says with a grimace. “It looks pretty horrific, even by your standards for gruesome injuries.”

“Oh man,” Peter moans. “I have an interview this afternoon at Oscorp. I’ve already had to reschedule it twice, and I really need this job.”

“I think you should try to reschedule again,” Johnny advises, reapplying the ice pack. “This is not the first impression you want to make. You look like you lost a bar fight to the Hulk or something. Good thing you were already pretty ugly, or this woulda been a lot worse.”

“I’d rather be smart than pretty, asshole,” Peter shoots back. “You thought armadillos were a kind of lizard up until last week.”

“I’m still not convinced they aren’t. I mean, they got scales and shit, just like a lizard.”

Peter groans. “Oh my god, I don’t want to have this stupid argument again. I feel terrible right now. I’m gonna be unemployed and broke forever, and on top of that, I’m pretty sure I killed that little guy when I hit him,” he says forlornly, blinking back tears in the one eye that isn’t completely swollen shut. 

“It was an accident. No one’s gonna miss him,” Johnny assures him. “Most people consider them vermin and would probably appreciate what you did, even if they’d never admit it out loud.”

Peter sniffs wetly. “Yeah, I know, but—”

He’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

“’S open,” Johnny calls.

The door opens and MJ steps through, plastic bags full of takeout boxes looped over her arm. She kicks the door shut with her heel and then freezes when she sees Peter, her eyebrows raised.

“Okay, what happened this time?” she asks. “Did you run into that lizard guy again?”

“No, I swung into a pigeon while I was out Spider-Man-ing this morning,” Peter explains. “Or, I guess it would be more accurate to say that we flew into each other.”

“That has got to be the most Peter Parker thing you have _ever_ done,” MJ says, coming over to peer more closely at Peter’s bruised, swollen face. “A little bird seriously did that? You look like a super soldier decked you."

“I mean, it’s a matter of simple physics, really,” Peter says with a shrug. “You hit a bird face-on while you’re both traveling towards each other at thirty-five miles-per-hour, and it’s gonna fuck you up.”

“Yeah, apparently,” MJ says, setting the bags down on the coffee table. She holds up a piece of paper in her other hand. “I hate to add insult to injury, but this was stuck to your door. It’s another eviction notice, and not to freak you out—but it looks pretty serious this time. They’re giving you fourteen days to pay up, or they’re gonna send the cops to boot you out.”

“What?” Peter says, reaching for the paper. He quickly scans it, frowning. “What the hell—this is dated to five days ago.”

“Well, that’s what happens when you guys come in and out through a window all the time instead of using your door like normal people,” MJ says dryly, sliding her coat off. “I guess you better figure out how to scrounge up three months of rent in nine days, or try to go to court and beg the judge for leniency. Either way, it’s gonna cost you."

“Oh no,” Peter groans. “Why does this keep happening?”

Johnny snorts. “‘Cause you don’t pay your half of the rent, dummy. It’s that simple.”

“No, it’s not. It’s become very apparent to me that I can either pay my rent on time or be Spider-Man, but I can’t do both. And I can’t stop being Spider-Man, so I’m in a real conundrum here,” Peter complains. “I hate this. I hate this expensive ass city. I hate being poor. Being an adult is nothing but constant suffering. I mean, I’m _killing_ myself out there—even the pigeons are out to get me. Why can’t I just be a baby forever? Is it too much to ask for someone to just love me unconditionally and take care of all my stupid whims and needs? God, I wish that pigeon had murdered me instead of the other way around.”

"I felt that rant in my soul," MJ agrees.

“Aw, Petey. We’ll figure it out. You wanna spoon and binge watch British gardening shows on Netflix?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah, I do,” Peter says, sniffling. “But I want to be the little spoon this time.”

“You can be whichever spoon you wanna be, bro,” Johnny soothes. “MJ, you want in on this snugglefest?”

“Yeah, I’ll pass,” MJ says, sitting down on the floor and reaching for the takeout. “Peter—I know you’re trying to ignore all of your crushing adult obligations right now, and you deserve to practice self-care even more than the rest of us, but you better figure this eviction thing out. You’re digging yourself a really big hole here.”

“I will. It’s totally fine. Everything is totally fine,” Peter says, pressing a pillow against his battered face.

***

Peter reschedules his Oscorp interview for the following day, only to have to cancel at the last minute when some idiot steals an ambulance and leads the police on a high speed chase through a busy neighborhood in Brooklyn.

He reschedules again, noting that the recruiter is starting to sound a little testy if still accommodating. They make an appointment for the following Tuesday, in a very tight window between Peter’s classes that already has him, as a chronically late person, anxiously sweating.

When Tuesday rolls around, he’s swinging his way across town to the Oscorp building, hoping his dress clothes aren’t getting too wrinkled stuffed into his backpack, when he’s once again waylaid—this time by a tour bus that plows through the guardrail on the Madison Avenue Bridge, because the universe hates Peter and wants him to suffer, he’s sure of it.

Peter catches the bus with a web right as it tips off the bridge and plunges nose-first towards the river below, the screams of the passengers inside turning to cheers as they look out the windows and spot him up on the bridge.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re all welcome—except for the driver,” Peter calls down to them a little bitterly. “Hey, Karen, can you send another email to the recruiter at Oscorp? Tell him…my grandma died suddenly or something, and ask if we can reschedule again.”

_“You already used your grandmother’s death as an excuse two weeks ago, Peter,”_ Karen reminds him.

“Okay, so...tell him my _other_ grandmother died.”

If Karen had lungs and could sigh in disappointment, Peter thinks she would. _“Alright, Peter.”_

“Thanks, K. You’re the best.”

Peter’s slowly hauling the bus back up the bridge when Johnny comes zipping through the air, dropping down and landing next to Peter with a gust of hot wind. 

“Hey, Spidey,” Johnny greets cheerfully. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Well, you can always just follow the screams and sirens to find me,” Peter replies through clenched teeth, hauling the bus up another few feet while the passengers inside shriek in terror once more.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I did. I wanted to tell you that I think I came up with a plan to avoid eviction.”

“Can we maybe talk about this later?” Peter asks, his arms shaking with effort. “I’m a little busy right now. Or you could—you know— _help._ ”

“Oh, right. My bad,” Johnny says, hopping down onto the dangling bus and pulling an elderly woman out through the rear emergency exit door. 

“Anyway,” he adds as he flies the woman up into the waiting arms of a firefighter standing on the bridge. “You wanna go out on a date with me?”

Peter loses his grip on the web. The terrified passengers shriek even louder as the bus plummets again towards the water. 

“Oh, god! Sorry, citizens! Please don’t panic—I got this,” Peter calls down, bringing the bus to an abrupt stop and then slowly hauling it hand-over-hand back up to the bridge. 

“Do I want to do _what_ now?” he asks Johnny, once he has the bus securely in his grasp again.

“Go out with me,” Johnny repeats, handing off another badly shaken passenger. “You know, romantically speaking.”

Peter starts to sweat under his mask. “Listen, I’m super flattered and all—I mean, you’re like, _light-years_ out of my league—it’s just—this is very awkward timing right now, considering the current life-or-death situation at hand. Can we talk about this at home?”

Johnny rolls his eyes and flies back up beside Peter.

“The timing is perfect. We have a _literal_ captive audience here to witness me asking you out,” he says in a low voice, gesturing to the passengers inside the bus. “This is part of my plan, dude. Play along.”

Peter strains to lift the bus high enough so that the rest of the passengers can clamber out onto the bridge. “Part of your—what?”

“My plan to dig us out of our rent hole,” Johnny explains. “We stage a PR relationship, you sell the super-exclusive photos to the Daily Bugle, we don’t get evicted. Problem solved.”

Peter blinks at him from behind the mask’s lenses. “That’s the _stupidest_ thing I’ve ever heard you say, and I’ve heard a _lot_ of dumb shit come out of your mouth. You cannot actually be serious.”

“What? Celebrities do this stuff all the time to boost their careers and images. It’s a tried-and-true tactic.”

“I’m _not_ a celebrity,” Peter says, planting his feet a little more firmly as the bus sways precariously under the shifting weight of its escaping passengers. “I’m just...a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

“You’re gonna be a homeless neighborhood Spider-Man here shortly,” Johnny replies as he helps the last passenger off the bus. “Come on. You need the money, and I’m trying to break a hundred-million followers on Instagram.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Did you ever think that this dumb stunt could have the opposite effect of what you’re hoping for?”

Johnny frowns. “What, like, ‘cause I’d be a dude dating another dude? Because I take pleasure in the idea of making bigoted numbnuts froth at the mouth.”

“Well, sure, but—I meant like, the whole dating an infamous masked vigilante thing,” Peter clarifies. “I don’t know how closely you follow the news, but my mere existence is extremely controversial. Half of this city, including the vast majority of the police force, think I’m a criminal. I’m personally responsible for most of the local legislation against vigilantism passed in recent years. The new mayor got elected in part because a lot of people loved how he trashed me on TV and Twitter all the time. Hating Spider-Man was practically its own policy on his platform during his campaign.” 

Johnny shrugs. “All publicity is good publicity, right? And who knows—maybe some of my good PR will rub off on you, ‘cause you’re right—your public image is hot garbage. You could really use some good PR.”

“I don’t need good PR. I don’t care about good PR,” Peter insists, just as the web snaps and the bus falls into the river below, hitting the water with a tremendous splash and then slowly sinking below the surface.

Johnny leans over the railing and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Hope that’s covered by insurance.”

“Everyone got out in time and no one was hurt. That’s all that matters,” Peter says defensively, before he’s shouldered aside by a trio of the rescued passengers eagerly flocking to Johnny.

“Thank you for saving us,” one of them gushes. 

“Yeah, you were so brave—it was incredible,” another says, fawning over him. She holds up her phone. “Can we get a picture?”

“Absolutely, ladies,” Johnny says, flashing them a brilliant grin. He tosses the phone to Peter. “Snap a pic for us, Spidey.”

Peter sighs, taking a picture of the group beaming at the camera. 

Someone taps him on the shoulder as he’s handing the phone back to the woman. He turns around to see a man wearing a “Bob’s Luxury Bus Tours” t-shirt.

“What, you want a picture with Johnny Storm, too?” Peter asks wearily.

“You dropped my bus, asshole,” the man spits out. “I have two kids in college—how the hell am I supposed to support them now?” He jabs a finger into Peter’s chest. “I’m suing for damages. I’m calling my lawyer. You’re _fucked_ , pal.”

Peter sighs again, his shoulders collapsing inward. He turns back to Johnny.

“Okay. Okay, yeah,” he says. “Fine. Let’s do your stupid plan. What do I have to lose?”

***

Later that day, Peter finds himself standing on the top of a Midtown high-rise with Johnny and MJ, who offered to act as their director-slash-photographer in exchange for Chinese takeout and the schadenfreude that comes with watching two people make complete fools of themselves.

“This feels incredibly dumb,” Peter says, already awash in regret. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because you’re three months behind on your half of the rent, and our landlord wants to evict us,” Johnny says, putting an arm around Peter’s waist and pulling him close. “These pictures are gonna make bank, I promise.”

Peter leans away from him. “Okay, but…this feels— _wrong._ Spider-Man is supposed to be, you know, a selfless hero and stuff. I feel weird making money off of this.”

“Dude, you stage photos of Spider-Man for cash all the time,” Johnny points out. “How is this any different?”

Peter shrugs helplessly. “I dunno, this seems like, _way_ more exploitative. Right? Like where is the line that I’m not supposed to cross?”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “The line is impending eviction.”

“I know, but—”

“Can we just hurry up and get this done?” MJ interrupts, hugging herself and bouncing up and down. “It’s freezing. I’m charging you guys extra wontons for every minute we’re up here.”

“You heard the boss lady—let’s do this,” Johnny says, yanking Peter closer again. “Now can you relax? I feel like I’m acting opposite a plank of wood here. Get into character. Swoon a little.”

“Swoon?” Peter echoes unhappily. “Who swoons in real life? Why am I swooning?”

“Because you’re overwhelmed by my hot masculine energy, dummy,” Johnny says, like it’s obvious.

“Well, what about _my_ hot masculine energy?” Peter asks.

Johnny makes a dubious face. “Pete, man, come on—we’re trying to make a believable scene here.”

“Wow, at least give me a proper burial after murdering me like that,” Peter says, affronted. “I’m just saying, I feel like this whole thing is fucked up. MJ, help me out.”

“This is truly despicable on multiple levels,” MJ agrees as she lifts Peter’s camera to her eye. “But I gotta side with Johnny here. This is about creating a fantasy that will be eagerly consumed by the over-sexed masses. Start swooning.”

“Okay, but—“ Peter starts.

Johnny cuts him off by grabbing his face in both of his hands. “The art director has spoken. Do you wanna do this thing or not?”

“Ugh,” Peter sighs. “Fine. Yes.”

Johnny leans closer. “Then shut up so I can kiss you.”

And then he is. His lips are weirdly, pleasantly hot against Peter’s through the thin material of his mask. Peter might actually swoon a little bit.

“Okay,” Johnnys says when they finally part. He clears his throat. “Cool. That was…good. Really good. Right?”

“Um. Yeah,” Peter agrees breathlessly.

“Cool, cool,” Johnny says. He seems to suddenly realize that he’s still holding Peter close, and he lets him go, taking a step back. “MJ, are we good? What does it look like?”

“Like a pair of costumed idiots kissing on top of a building,” MJ says, examining the camera’s viewfinder screen. “I think we’re good to go.”

“Wait,” Peter says, grabbing Johnny’s arm as he starts to walk away. “Maybe we should take a few more? You know, just in case. I usually take a few pictures from different angles and stuff, so I can pick the best one.”

“Yeah, okay,” Johnny says immediately, coming back around. “I mean, you’re the professional photographer here, Petey. So. Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“You guys are seriously so stupid and you don’t even know it. It’s tragic,” MJ says with sadistic delight, raising the camera again.

***

The next morning, Peter is awoken at a brutally early hour by the sound of his phone pinging loudly on the desk beside his bed, even though he’s ninety-nine-percent sure his phone is set to silent mode.

It pings again when he ignores it, and then it starts beeping incessantly. Peter groans and rolls over, stretching an arm out into the darkness and fumbling for the phone. He squints at the screen, where a text from Tony is displayed.

_Come over. I made breakfast,_ it reads.

Peter groans again, covering his eyes with an arm. The phone pings again with a second message:

_I know you’re awake._

_sometimes u make it very hard to love u,_ Peter types back.

_Yeah you’re a real martyr. Hurry up before the waffles get cold,_ Tony replies.

_Okay yes coming rn,_ Peter begrudgingly responds, kicking the comforter off and rolling out of bed.

A couple of subway stops and a short walk later, he’s stepping out of the elevator into Tony’s palatial penthouse, still yawning and blinking sleep out of his eyes as he plods towards the kitchen. He stops short when he arrives there, taking in the clutter of bowls and measuring cups and spilled pools of batter littering the usually pristine countertops, and Tony standing there in the middle of the chaos, his old MIT sweatshirt smeared with flour and splatters of more batter.

“Whoa, did you actually make breakfast yourself?” Peter asks as he drops his backpack to the floor and takes a seat on one of the stools at the island.

“Yes, I actually made breakfast myself. Don’t die of shock,” Tony says, sounding a little stung as he puts a plate of waffles down on the countertop in front of Peter. “I even did my own laundry last night. I’m fully domesticated now.”

“Wow.” Peter leans over the plate. “These look edible, Mr. Stark. I’m seriously impressed.”

“Well, you know, I work hard to keep you kids happy and comfortable. It’s all for you.” Tony leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “Speaking of which—that’s a beautiful shiner you got there. How’d you get that one? Catch a bus with your face?”

“Caught a pigeon with my face, actually, and yes, it was as stupid as it sounds,” Peter replies primly, trying a bite of the waffles. “But you’ll be pleased to know I was forced to reschedule my Oscorp interview once again because of that pigeon.”

“I am very pleased. I want to find that pigeon and provide him with stale pizza crusts for life.”

“The pigeon is dead. It was a kamikaze attack.”

“That’s too bad. He died an honorable death for a good cause, at least,” Tony says, swiping crumbs off the countertop. “You know, you could just avoid all this hassle and come work for SI. You wouldn’t even have to interview for the job.”

“That’s exactly why I have a problem with working for SI,” Peter replies. “It reeks of nepotism.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s not nepotism if you’re actually qualified for the position.”

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone else would still be thinking it. I gotta earn my spot at SI, and that means working for a couple of years at Oscorp or another tech company like that.”

“Alright, well, if you’re determined to make your life harder than it needs to be, I guess I can’t stop you,” Tony sighs. “How’s everything else going?”

Peter shrugs. “Things are...you know, normal. Fine.”

“Uh-huh. Anything new going on?” Tony asks with a manufactured casualness.

Peter pauses chewing and warily glances up. Tony is looking at him, his face completely, carefully, _alarmingly_ expressionless, and Peter instantly realizes that he’s walked right into a set up of some sort. He starts shoveling waffle into his mouth, hoping to finish quickly and make an escape before things get too out of hand.

“Uh. No. Nope,” he replies around a mouthful of waffle. “Same old stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” Tony nods, opening up a drawer and taking a Stark tablet out. “No exciting new developments you’d like to share with the class?”

Peter rapidly shakes his head, feeling an impending sense of doom as he watches Tony wake the tablet. “No. Just same old boring stuff. You know, armed robberies. Lizard men. Killer robots. Totally boring. Ha.”

“Really? ‘Cause this sure looks like fun,” Tony says. He hands the tablet across to Peter.

Peter takes it and looks down at the screen, where a picture of Spider-Man intimately entangled in a passionate embrace with Johnny Storm is displayed across the majority of the Daily Bugle’s home page. TORCH CAUGHT IN SPIDER-MAN’S WEB, the headline reads, bracketed by spider and flame emojis.

Peter looks back up at Tony, who is still staring at him completely stone-faced. 

Tony reaches across the island and taps the screen. “So. What do you have to say about that?”

“Well. For one, I’m a little disappointed with the headline,” Peter offers. “It’s kinda obvious. And the emojis are definitely overkill and make it look like a Buzzfeed article or something. I like to think the Bugle represents a higher class of trashy celebrity gossip and conspiracy-mongering.”

Tony lets his chin drop against his chest, momentarily defeated, before taking a deep breath and once more skewering Peter with a hard look. “You could have at least given me some warning that the two of you are...I mean, I had my _suspicions,_ but—”

“Johnny and I are just roommates,” Peter interrupts. 

“ _Roommates,_ ” Tony echoes sardonically. “Yeah, I’ve had roommates, too. We were similarly plastered on the front of tabloids in compromising situations. There’s even video floating around out there.”

“First of all— _gross._ Secondly, you’re misconstruing the situation. Spider-Man and the Torch are dating,” Peter explains. “Johnny and I are just friends.”

“Boy, you’re really leaning hard into this whole alter ego thing, aren’t you,” Tony deadpans. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Good. Great,” Peter says firmly. “At least, my rent is being paid and my editor is very happy, so that makes my life easier.”

Tony nods again, tapping his fingers against the countertop. “Yeah, that’s very important—keeping your asshole editor happy. And what about your aunt? Does May approve of you making smut?”

“She always supports me,” Peter replies as he pours more syrup over his waffles, deciding that if this is going to be his last meal on Earth he might as well enjoy it. “Unlike you.”

Tony’s eyebrows skyrocket towards his hairline. “What do you mean, unlike me? I have a subscription to the Bugle, as much as it disgusts me to give them money. I am _paying_ for this garbage, like a complete clown.”

“Okay, so, that’s really what it’s all about. The money, I mean. These pictures are going to pay a whole three months of rent for me,” Peter says, stuffing more waffle into his mouth. 

“ _Pictures,_ ” Tony says, gripping the edge of the counter and looking at Peter a little wild-eyed. “Pictures—plural? As in _multiple_ pictures? There is more of—” he points a shaking finger at the tablet—“ _this_ to come?”

“Yeah. We did like, a whole series. We have to make a believable committed relationship. It’s gotta be romance worth rooting for, you know? The more the public get invested, the more money those pictures are worth.”

Tony reels backwards, shaking his head mournfully. “You’re so smart and have so much creative talent, and this is what you’re choosing to waste it on. What happened? Is this my fault? Am I not giving you enough attention or something?”

“Oh my god,” Peter mutters, rolling his eyes. “Would you believe it if I told you that you’re not actually the center of the universe and this has nothing at all to do with you? I’m just trying to do my job and keep a roof over my head.”

“You don’t need to sink to these sorts of ridiculous publicity stunts,” Tony insists. “I mean—Pete, I know you got this whole thing about standing on your own two feet, but if you’re having a hard time, if you need money, you know you can always just ask—”

“No. No, no,” Peter cuts him off. “I don’t want your money. I don’t _need_ your money. I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can, but…okay—how about a loan, then? Huh?” Tony suggests, pacing back and forth behind the island. “An interest free loan. Just to help keep your head above the water while you finish school. I know this whole attempting to live a fulfilling life while saving the world thing can be like trying to swim with a concrete block chained around your ankles.”

“I don’t need help,” Peter insists. “I’m a great swimmer.”

“You’re a _terrible_ swimmer. I’ve seen you in my pool. You can barely dog paddle.”

Peter stuffs even more waffle into his mouth to stifle the urge to scream. “I meant metaphorically. I’m like the Michael Phelps of metaphorical swimming. So I don’t need any help, okay?”

“Okay. Okay—fine,” Tony says, backing down a little. “But I’m hiring you a professional PR person.”

“No, you’re not. I got this handled,” Peter replies, examining the article on the tablet again. “Holy shit, this just got posted like an hour ago and it already has over three million likes. Whoa, and look at all the comments—”

Tony snatches the tablet out of Peter’s hands. “ _Don’t_ read the comments. Christ almighty. I made that mistake and I don’t want you repeating it.”

Peter frowns at him. “Are they that bad?”

“They’re not— _appropriate,_ ” Tony replies in a strained voice, looking a little haunted.

“So they’re good,” Peter says, pleasantly surprised. “Johnny was actually right for once.”

“This whole dumb thing was Johnny’s idea? God, that explains everything,” Tony says, putting the tablet back in the drawer. “You know what he’s after, right?”

“Yeah, media attention and the adoration of the masses,” Peter says, helping himself to another waffle. “He like, thrives off of it the way a plant needs sunlight to survive. So it’s a mutually beneficial situation.”

Tony nods. “Mm-hm. Yeah. _Mutually beneficial._ Sounds about right.”

Peter hears the note of sarcasm in his voice. He looks across the island at Tony through narrowed eyes. “What? Why are you being weird?”

Tony gives Peter an equally scrutinizing look. “You _really_ don’t know?”

“Know _what?_ ” Peter asks, completely exasperated.

Tony examines him for a moment longer, and then releases an exaggerated sigh.“Peter, buddy, dearest darling—you are too good for this world. And I don’t mean that as a compliment. Your innocent trust in the inherent goodness of humanity keeps me awake at night. It shaves years off of my life. I don’t know how someone so smart can simultaneously be this dumb.”

Peter rolls his eyes again. “Ugh, god. Why are you always like this?”

“Because I care about you, Petey, very, very much.”

“So you insult me?”

“Yes, but I also made you breakfast to soften the blow,” Tony says, gesturing to the mess behind him. “My own father left it at the insults. I’m trying a gentler form of parenting.”

“Yeah, you’re doing real great, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies, giving a sardonic thumbs up. “World’s best dad material, for sure.”

Tony throws a dish towel into Peter’s face. “I’m just trying to help out here, you sarcastic little shit. I’m hoping you won’t make the same mistakes I did as an idiotic, irrational twenty-something. You’re having fun now, but trust me—dealing with the media is like juggling a live grenade. You never know when it’s gonna blow up in your face.”

“Yeah, I’m aware,” Peter says wearily. “Spider-Man gets shitty press like every day. I’m completely desensitized at this point. If this goes south I won’t even feel it. Look, I’m fully aware of how dumb this whole thing is,” he adds. “I just need some extra cash until I land a steady job, and then I’ll drop this, alright? So don’t lose your mind over it. I got it handled.”

“Alright, if you say so,” Tony replies reluctantly, shrugging. He leans against the island, squinting at Peter again. “So, just to be one-hundred-percent clear—the two of you aren’t...you and Johnny haven’t…”

He makes a gesture with his hands.

Peter looks at him blankly. “Okay—that hand thing you just did? I have no idea what that means, and I don’t want you to _ever_ tell me.”

“I’m just saying—you’ve always had a bit of a thing for big dumb beefcakes.” 

“I do _not,_ ” Peter splutters indignantly. “And I’m not gonna discuss my—my _private life_ with you. That’s none of your business.”

“There’s no need to discuss anything. It’s a yes or no question.”

“No.”

“No, you’re not?” Tony looks hopeful. 

“No, I’m not answering this question,” Peter replies, sliding off the stool. “I came over here to eat waffles, not to be interrogated. I shoulda known this was a trap. You never invite me over for breakfast.”

“Only because it took me this long to perfect my waffle recipe,” Tony says, jabbing a spatula at him like a weapon.

“Sure, that’s why,” Peter says dryly as he scoops up his backpack. “I really gotta go or I’m gonna be late to class. Thanks for this…mini intervention or whatever it was.”

“Now who’s being dramatic? And call me if you change your mind about the PR thing. Or the loan,” Tony says as he makes a shooing motion. “Skedaddle before Morgan wakes up. If she witnesses you leaving she’s going to have a meltdown. I try to avoid tantrums before eight AM.”

“Really?” Peter says. “Because I feel like I just witnessed a big ol’ tantrum.”

“Get outta here, you little twerp,” Tony grumbles, throwing the spatula at him.

***

Something…strange starts to happen in the weeks that follow, as the Bugle continues to publish photos of Spider-Man’s ongoing ‘romance' with Johnny Storm.

It’s very subtle, but Peter pays attention to these things, as much he denies caring about it, and what he notices is, that all of a sudden, people are…

Nicer.

Spider-Man is a more-or-less ubiquitous feature of local media, the coverage ranging widely between rabidly negative to lukewarm positivity depending on the news source. But Spider-Man’s relationship with Johnny must cloak him in some kind of air of respectability by proximity, because the negative news coverage is suddenly running a lot more neutral, and the positive news coverage is practically fawning.

Even Peter’s editor at the Bugle, who used anti-Spider-Man sentiment to launch a successful career and build a huge audience for his many other conspiracy theories and garbage opinions, has grudgingly softened on the wall-crawler. Jameson never goes so far as to admit he was wrong about Spider-Man being a menace and danger to society, but the articles and headlines accompanying the photos are distinctly less inflammatory than the Bugle’s Spider-Man coverage typically is. Peter thinks that has more to do with the massive uptick in traffic these pictures are driving to the Bugle’s website, rather than his boss having a real change of heart.

“Both my girlfriend and my tita replaced a picture of me with a photo of Spider-Man and the Torch as their phone’s lock screen. SNL did a skit about you guys—it wasn’t funny, but still. How does it feel to be famous?” Ned asks him via Skype from Boston one night while Peter is nursing a concussion and struggling to cram for an exam.

“I would argue that Spider-Man was already pretty famous,” Peter replies, shrugging.

“Yeah, but now you’re famous for like, the _right_ reasons.”

Peter looks up from his textbook to fix Ned with a stony look. “You mean for having a dumb fake relationship with Johnny Storm, rather than for, I dunno— _saving people?_ ”

Ned shrugs. “No one cares about that. Costumed superheroes are a dime-a-dozen these days. There's like, at least twenty operating in New York City alone. But you’re fake dating the most famous of them, for sure. Except for Iron Man, I guess, but Tony Stark is retired, so I dunno if he counts anymore.”

Peter sighs, staring back down at his textbook.

“You guys have a blended relationship name now—Spideytorch,” Ned continues. “You’re like the new Brangelina, if Brad Pitt was dating like, Michael Cera or something instead of Angelina Jolie.”

“Thanks,” Peter says dryly. “You’re doing great things for my self-confidence right now.”

“Okay, but like, a really buff, cut Michael Cera,” Ned hastily adds. “With amazing abs. You’re cute, dude. Just…awkward.”

“It’s fine, Ned,” Peter says, sighing again and attempting to read the same page of his textbook for the fifteenth time while ignoring both the pounding ache between his temples and the twist of guilt that he gets in his stomach whenever this publicity stunt gets brought up. Guilt—because as much as he tells himself none of this stuff matters, not the fame or the fans or the positive media attention, that Spider-Man isn’t about any of that superficial garbage, there’s a deep down part of himself that really, really…

Likes it.

***

Peter’s noticing other things, too. Things he hadn’t noticed before they took those stupid pictures for this stupid publicity stunt but now can’t stop thinking about, like taking those photographs had unlocked a weird secret door to some dumb animal part of his brain. Things like…

Johnny.

Or, more specifically—the veins in Johnny’s forearms. Or the way the muscles move in his back when he changes his shirt. Or his stupid smile, with those stupid, perfect white teeth. Or his hands, and the way they they had felt pressed against Peter’s waist or his face—hot, like a fever, like a concentrated sunbeam—or any of the other myriad things Peter should absolutely _not_ be noticing about his roommate and close friend. It leads to a lot of awkward, unfortunate wet dreams and guilt-ridden, shameful shower jerk-off sessions that leave Peter feeling a little like a complete perv.

“I don’t get it,” he eventually tells MJ. “I never noticed this stuff about him before—I mean, I did, it's like impossible not to notice. But not like... _this._ ”

“Maybe nothing’s changed,” MJ says mysteriously, scratching in her notebook. “Maybe your subconscious is just realizing a potential that’s been there all along.”

Peter frowns at her. “What?”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Never mind. Please tell me more about your sexual fantasies involving Johnny. I’m gonna include them in my next story. My readers have been asking for more smut since Spider-Man and the Torch got together.”

“Dude,” Peter says, his frown deepening. “You gotta stop that. I feel like I can’t tell you anything about my life out of fear that you’ll post it all over the internet.”

“Spider-Man,” MJ corrects. “I write about Spider-Man’s life. No one cares about Peter Parker.”

“Ouch.”

“I thought that’s the way you like it?”

“It is,” Peter says adamantly. He worries at a loose thread on her bedspread while he watches her scribble in her notebook.

“I think there’s something wrong with me,” he tells her.

“Yeah, you’re an idiot,” MJ replies, without missing a beat.

Peter can’t argue with that. He goes home from her apartment and makes a sheepish call to the Oscorp recruiter in an attempt to wrangle another interview after his no-show, deciding that this dumb publicity stunt has gone on long enough and he really needs to get back on track to becoming a responsible adult—one with a real, steady job, who doesn’t exchange seedy pictures for cash and who never secretly thirsts after their friends like a creep. 

The recruiter sounds like he is having a very hard time being patient and understanding. He makes vaguely-threatening references to other candidates’ glowing resumes, and how the hiring manager would like to fill the position as soon as possible, but Peter grovels and ultimately the recruiter relents. The interview is rescheduled once more, but it’s pushed out several weeks. 

Peter suspects the recruiter hopes to fill the position before Peter has a chance to interview, but there’s not a whole lot he can do about that, beyond enjoying his brush with positive fame and celebrity while it lasts and attempting to brutally repress his wildly inappropriate thoughts about his roommate.

Not that Johnny makes that easy.

“Check it out,” Johnny says to him one afternoon while they’re sitting around in their apartment, shoving his laptop into Peter’s face. “We have fan art.”

“What? That’s so—” Peter looks at the image on the screen and nearly chokes on his own saliva— “ _naked._ Oh my god. Very, very naked. And graphic. Wow.”

“Nah, that’s tame. Look at these,” Johnny says, pulling up more images.

Peter observes them with a mixture of horror and fascination. “Oh my god. This is so horny. And weird. That’s supposed to be me? Is that what people think my face looks like? Why did everyone apparently collectively decide that I’m blonde?”

“I think this really popular fan artist draws you like that, and it just caught on with everyone else after that,” Johnny says with a shrug. “Here, this one is more tasteful. Still porn, but like, _artsy_ porn.”

“Jeez, how many of these do you have?” 

“Like dozens. A whole folder full,” Johnny says proudly.

“That’s…sort of weird, dude,” Peter says, like he hadn’t jerked off with an image in mind very close to the sort of situation presented in this fan art that very morning. He has the self-control of a toddler, apparently.

“What, I keep everything my fans send me. I appreciate their love,” Johnny says, closing the laptop and tucking it under his arm. “Hey, listen—Sue is making me go to this St. Patrick’s Day party thing in SoHo tonight. They’re fundraising for charity. You think you can come as my plus-one? I bet we could triple the donations if we show up together.”

“Me?” Peter asks, frowning.

“Well—Spider-Man,” Johnny corrects. 

“Oh. Right,” Peter says. He grimaces. “Yeah, I dunno, man. Staging photos is one thing, but making public appearances—it might be a bridge too far.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun, and it’s for a good cause,” Johnny wheedles. “We only gotta stay like an hour. There’ll be free food.”

Peter hesitates, considering. “Like _free_ free? Or I have to pay a cover charge at the door?”

“ _Free_ free, bro.”

Peter sighs. “Okay, fine. I’ll come for free food.”

“Awesome, dude,” Johnny says, rubbing his hands together. “I appreciate it.”

Peter regrets his decision to go almost as soon as they arrive at the venue. He and Johnny perch on the roof of the building across the street and look down at the long line of people queued up at the doors, a line that stretches the length of the block.

“That’s...a lot of people,” Peter says.

“Yeah, I may have mentioned on Twitter that I was coming with Spider-Man,” Johnny replies.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Peter mumbles, feeling vaguely nauseated. “We’re deceiving these people.”

“Yeah, we are, but we’re deceiving them for _charity,_ ” Johnny reminds him. “Look, I’ll do all the heavy-lifting. You just smile and wave and pucker up for a smooch every now and again.”

“I’m wearing a mask. No one can tell if I’m smiling or not.”

“Okay, so just wave. It’ll be fun, Pete. Stop overthinking everything and just enjoy it,” Johnny says, grabbing Peter around the waist and leaping off of the building before Peter can react.

The crowd starts to cheer as soon as they touch the ground. Johnny flashes his trademark brilliant grin as he tugs Peter closer.

“Smile and wave, babe. They’re cheering for you,” Johnny says. “Are you smiling?”

“No,” Peter lies, waving.

***

Later, they unwind from the noise and chaos of the party by sharing a joint on the Statue of Liberty’s torch, their heads leaned close together in an attempt to protect the joint's cherry from the biting gusts of wind sweeping across their little sanctuary.

“It’s _freezing_ out here,” Peter complains, violently shivering.

“I thought your suit has a heater in it?” Johnny says, lazily puffing on the joint.

“It does, and I’m still cold. We seriously need to pick a different spot to do this until summer.” 

“But look at the view,” Johnny replies, gesturing towards the glittering silhouette of the city in the distance. “It’s romantic. This is the perfect spot to enjoy a toke with my fake boyfriend.”

Peter snorts. “Yeah, well, your fake boyfriend’s gonna die from hypothermia. How’s that for romance?”

“No, it’s perfect,” Johnny insists. “I bring my date out here, they’re freezing their balls off, and I get to say—no worries, baby, I got you. And then I make a move, like this,” he continues, putting an arm around Peter’s shoulders and shuffling closer, until his side is pressed against Peter’s and the radiant heat of his body is warding off the chill cut of the wind. “And they won’t be able to resist the urge to snuggle in even closer, like a moth to a flame. Real smooth, right? We’re halfway to the bedroom now.”

Peter snorts again, rolling his eyes. “You are so dumb. Does that ever actually work?”

Johnny shrugs and holds the joint out to him. “Dunno. Usually being a famous superhero is enough—no need for romance. And anyway, I never bring anyone else out here except you. It’s like…our spot, you know? This is sacred ground.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess it…kinda is,” Peter agrees, accepting the joint. He takes a slow drag off it and blows out a long, streaming cloud, trying to get rid of the sudden tension seizing up his spine.

“That party was actually kinda fun,” he cautiously admits as he passes the joint back. “You were right. This whole fake relationship has been really good for my public image. I mean, a cop even shook my hand. A _cop._ Usually they’re trying to arrest me.”

“Cops like you.”

Peter huffs out a little humorless laugh. “Yeah, no, they really don’t. I’ve been shot five times since I started doing this at fourteen. Three of those times it was a cop who shot me. Some of them grudgingly tolerate me, at best.”

“Well, they don’t hate you. They hate the _idea_ of you,” Johnny says. “You know, the masked vigilante thing. If you took the mask off, things would be different. You should think about it, after you graduate.”

Peter shakes his head. “No. I can’t. It’s different for me. My friends and family—they’re just regular people. I’m not out there fighting intergalactic alien invaders—I mean, sometimes I am, but mostly my enemies are very local. The organized crime bosses I get thrown in jail, the domestic abusers, the rapists? They’re my aunt’s neighbors. If people knew Peter Parker is the guy under the mask...I don’t even want to think about what could happen to her.”

“I get it. It’s too bad, though, ‘cause if people had a chance to meet Peter Parker, I know they’d really love him,” Johnny says earnestly. “Even the dumb cops. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and you’re always trying to help people…there’s no way they could still hate you. You’re like…perfect, man.”

Peter doesn’t say anything to that. There’s a weird tightness in the pit of his stomach and he’s not sure why. 

Johnny passes the joint back, and then flashes Peter a smile. “But who cares about the haters, right?”

“Right,” Peter says thickly, thinking that it’s probably a lot easier to not care when everyone and their mother adores you. “It’s still nice, though—people being nice to me, I mean. All the bad press Spider-Man gets…it can be really tiring sometimes. I gave up...relationships, and jobs, and my grades. I gave up being an Avenger, just so I could keep helping the people in the neighborhood I grew up in. I do the _same_ thing you do, and it's like...it doesn't even matter.”

“Hey, what are you talking about—it doesn’t even matter?” Johnny says, giving Peter a little squeeze. “Of course it matters. I know you get a lotta bad press, but people _love_ Spider-Man. For every idiot who trashes you on TV, I see like ten little kids running around in Spider-Man merch. And listen, I have as many Instagram followers as Beyoncé now thanks to this fake relationship, which means that there are at least as many people out there who love Spider-Man as there are people who love Beyoncé. _Beyoncé_ , dude.”

That gets a smile out of Peter. “Actually, when you put it like that, it does sound pretty good.”

Johnny leans into Peter’s shoulder. “I like Spider-Man, too. That’s not just fake boyfriend talk. I wouldn’t be doing this whole superhero gig if I didn't idolize Spider-Man, ‘cause you're right. This job _sucks_. You’re either bored outta your mind or dying from stress, everybody’s trying to kill you, and it’s next to impossible to have any kind of normal life or relationship. I loved that guy even before I officially met the dude under the mask. And I still like him now, even though he’s the shittiest, most disgusting roommate on planet.”

“Ha. Yeah, sorry,” Peter says a little sheepishly. He smiles at Johnny. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate that.”

Johnny grins. “Sure, Pete. I always got your back.” 

“Thanks,” Peter says again, earnestly. He offers the joint back to Johnny. “Hey, uh, my editor wants more pictures of us. I mean, you and Spider-Man. And I could really use the money to get me through the rest of the semester, or at least until I get a steady job, so...I hate to ask, but...”

“Yeah, I’ll take more pictures with you, no problem,” Johnny agrees cheerfully, taking a long drag on the joint. “Forget Beyoncé. We keep this PR relationship going, and I could come for Tony Stark’s social media crown. Unseat the king.”

“Yeah, it’s...good to have life goals. Thanks.”

“Sure,” Johnny says, taking another hit before handing the joint back to Peter, casually adding as he does, “We should kiss.”

Peter startles, almost dropping the joint. “For the pictures?”

“No, now."

Peter gives Johnny a little confused smile. “Why? There’s no one here to see.”

“Just to practice. You were a little stiff last time. We oughta rehearse for this round, so it looks natural, you know?”

“Oh.” Peter chews on the end of the joint, that tightness in the pit of his stomach suddenly returning. He gives a jerky little shrug. “Yeah, sure. That's...a good idea. Probably.”

“Cool,” Johnny says, grinning as he leans towards Peter. He retrieves the joint and takes a quick drag on it before pinching out the end and tucking it into his boot.

“And...maybe lose the mask this time, since we’re alone?” he suggests. “It just gets in the way.”

“Uh. Okay,” Peter agrees, tugging his mask off the rest of the way. That tightness in his stomach winds almost painfully tighter for some reason.

“Yeah, that’s better,” Johnny murmurs with another amused smirk. “Just...try to relax, alright? You’re giving me like a Bambi in the headlights look right now. I’m not gonna suck your soul out like a Dementron or whatever.”

“Dementor.”

Johnny rolls his eyes. “Whatever, nerd. You okay?”

“I’m okay. Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be okay?” Peter insists, while silently pleading with whatever higher powers that might exist to mercifully spare him from the terminal embarrassment of springing an untimely hard-on.

Johnny’s smirk curls into a wider smile, softening. “Okay.”

He leans closer and touches his lips to Peter’s. His mouth tastes like smoke and heat. It makes that tightness in the pit of Peter’s stomach go funny and swoopy all of a sudden, like the feeling he gets sometimes when he’s swinging by his webbing, that exhilarating moment of free fall before he catches himself on the next silken line, only instead of falling he’s floating, up and up and up.

***

He comes back down to earth, quite literally, a week or so later.

“Ouchies,” Peter says around a mouthful of blood, sprawled out across the dented-in roof of the car he landed on. He looks up at the towering building looming overhead, the one that a burly Russian in tactical gear had just blasted him out of with a hand-held sonic cannon. “How many stories was that, Karen?”

_“Twenty-two.”_

“Wow. A new record. Good thing this car was here to break my fall,” Peter says, groaning as he hauls himself up. He staggers around on the sidewalk, blinking stars out of his eyes and looking around at the crowd of spectators who’ve gathered nearby, politely clapping for him. He glances back at the car with its smashed roof and shattered windshield.

“Is this anyone’s car?” he asks the crowd. “No? Does anyone have a pen and some paper by any chance? I wanna write down my insurance info for the owner.”

An elderly woman steps forward, digging a pen and a piece of scrap paper out of her enormous handbag and offering it to him.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Peter says, jotting down Tony’s personal number on the paper and then carefully sliding it under one of the bent, splintered windshield wipers.

“You’ve been impaled, dear,” the elderly woman says as he hands her back the pen, pointing at the crossbow bolt sticking out of Peter’s shoulder, another gift from the burly Russian.

Peter glances down at it. “Yeah, and the guy didn’t even buy me dinner first, can you believe that?”

The crowd collectively grumbles and shakes their heads. “That ain’t it, man,” a bodega guy in the back calls out.

“I have a boyfriend, remember?” Peter protests. “I’m _allowed_ to make jokes like that.”

Someone lobs a half-empty styrofoam coffee cup at him. “Go home, Spider-Man!”

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he mutters as he swings one-armed away from the scene. “Tough crowd, Karen.”

_“I think your socially inappropriate jokes are very funny, Peter,”_ the A.I. replies.

“Thanks, babe. Love the way you stroke my ego.” Peter pauses for a moment on the roof of a building, wincing as he rotates his injured shoulder. “Can you tell if our crazy Russian friend is still around? Because this actually does really hurt, and I don’t wanna climb all the way back up there unless I absolutely have to.”

_“I am unable to detect the suspect in the area any longer.”_

Peter blows out a breath and thwips out another web, cradling his injured arm against his chest as he steps off the roof's ledge. “Alright, well, it’s his lucky day, I guess. Let’s go home.”

Back at his apartment, he stands in front of the mirror in the cramped bathroom, suit peeled down around his hips, and tries not to pass out as he swabs the bloody hole the crossbow bolt left in his shoulder with a washcloth soaked in rubbing alcohol.

There’s a rap at the bathroom door, and then Johnny’s voice calls through it. “Hey, Petey—you alive in there? There’s blood all over the floor out here. Looks like crime scene.”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m good,” Peter calls back, gagging as he presses on the wound.

The door opens, and Johnny pokes his head around, frowning when he catches sight of Peter.

“Jesus, Peter,” he says, coming the rest of the way in. “What are the house rules?”

“Uh…super suits go in a separate laundry hamper, when entering or exiting through a window always close it behind you to keep bugs out, and never perform home surgery on yourself,” Peter replies with a grimace. “It’s not that bad, though. Everything came out in one piece, and I didn’t have to stick anything back inside this time.”

“You are fucked in the head, bro,” Johnny says, taking the heavy duty first aid kit out from the cabinet under the sink. He pats the vanity's countertop. “Hop up there and let me do it for you, at least.”

Peter does as he’s told, taking a seat on top of the vanity. Johnny rifles through the kit, pulling out gauze pads and surgical tape. He takes a step closer to Peter, making Peter spread his knees a little to accommodate him.

“You really don’t have to do this,” Peter says. His mouth has gone very dry for some reason. “It’s not that bad.”

“I don’t mind. We gotta look out for each other, you and me,” Johnny says, glancing up at Peter’s face and flashing a smile. “Superhero bro code.”

Peter gives him a tight smile in return. “Yeah, bro code.”

“You’re like, up to date on your tetanus shots, right?” Johnny asks, leaning even closer as he carefully starts taping gauze down over the sluggishly oozing puncture, a faint frown of concentration on his face.

“Uh-huh…I mean…probably…” Peter mumbles distractedly. For some reason he is suddenly, _extremely_ aware of how close Johnny’s stupid, handsome face is to his, and the heat of Johnny’s body between his legs, and his smell, and _god,_ Peter’s heart is doing some kind of fast, fluttery thing and he’s painfully, embarrassingly turned on just from this nearness, and—

He leans forward and kisses Johnny, a swift little darting kiss, and then jerks back just as quickly, totally mortified and shocked, his back colliding with the mirror behind him. Johnny blinks wide-eyed and open-mouthed back at him, looking equally stunned, a forgotten roll of gauze dangling from his outstretched hand.

“Oh my god,” Peter gasps, his face hot. “I’m so, so sorry—I just… _assaulted_ you. I’m such a jerk. I don’t know why I did that, it just came out of nowhere, and I’m so—”

Johnny cuts off his panicked rambling by leaning forward and kissing him back—soft at first, and then more urgently, his hands coming up to hold Peter’s face and tug him closer. And then it’s like a dam breaking, like a spring under tension finally snapping—all hands and mouths, everywhere, feverish and aggressive. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Peter yelps, all high and wavering, when Johnny takes hold of the suit hanging around Peter’s hips and yanks it the rest of the way off, and then grabs him under his now bare thighs and pulls him to the edge of the countertop so their bodies are pressed flush together. Peter wonders how he hasn’t lost consciousness, given how quickly all the blood in his head drains south—even quicker, after Johnny snakes a hand down between their bodies.

“Oh, that’s so hot,” Peter gasps out.

“Yeah, you like that?” Johnny murmurs huskily, enthusiastically mouthing at Peter’s jaw and throat.

“No, I mean, that’s—physically— _really hot,_ ” Peter clarifies, squirming.

“Oh!” Johnny instantly releases him, jumping backwards, and the renewed distance allows Peter to regain some executive control over his brain.

“Oh shit, oh god…what was that?” Peter asks breathlessly. 

Johnny offers a sheepish, apologetic grin. “Sorry, man—I _swear_ that doesn’t usually happen. I just got a little worked up.”

“No—I mean, what are we _doing?_ ” Peter says. “We should _not_ be doing this.”

Johnny nods. “You’re right.”

Peter blinks at him, feeling strangely disappointed. “I am?”

“Yeah. We’re friends. It could lead to all kinds of weirdness.” Johnny takes a deep breath. “Which is why we should totally do it one time and get it out of our systems.”

Peter coughs. “Do—what? You mean...we should...”

He makes a gesture with his hands.

“So I have no clue what that finger thing you just did means,” Johnny says. “But I’m saying we should _bone,_ dude. Right here, right now.”

Peter looks around the cramped bathroom. “Here? _Now?_ ”

“Yeah. See, If you do it in the shower, it doesn’t count. It only counts if you do it horizontally. This is like, a freebie.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works at all,” Peter says skeptically. “And I think this a _terrible_ idea. I mean—we’re friends. We live together. You’re fake dating Spider-Man—I can’t let my public and private personas interact on that level. It would be too much...cross-contamination. It would be—just asking for catastrophe. We absolutely cannot, we shouldn’t, we...”

Johnny is looking at him, his eyebrows raised and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, like he can already see where this is going and he’s just waiting for Peter to realize it too.

“I mean...do you really want to?” Peter asks in a faint voice. 

“I just had my hand on your dick, bro. I think the answer is pretty obvious,” Johnny replies. His smile turns sly. “And, uh…seems like you were pretty into it, too.”

Peter nearly chokes, his face burning. His hands are suddenly very sweaty. “Like, you don’t think we’ll fuck up our friendship if we...”

Johnny huffs out a little laugh. “Dude, I’m not asking you to marry me. We’ll agree this is a one-time thing, alright? No big deal, no strings attached, no pressure.”

Peter nods, wetting his lips with his tongue. “Okay. Can you just give me one minute? I need to consult with someone first before I move forward with this transaction.”

“You need to consult with someone?” Johnny repeats, his expression confused. “Like...a lawyer? A rabbi?”

“Yeah, something like that. Just—wait right here, okay?” Peter says, bending to dig his phone out of his discarded suit before shuffling backwards out the bathroom door. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Peter lurches down the hall to his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He leans against it and fumbles to unlock the phone, making a video call.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he pleads under his breath as it rings, wiping his sweaty palms off on his legs.

The call connects, and MJ appears on the screen.

“‘Sup, loser,” she greets.

“I need your help. My roommate just propositioned me,” Peter tells her in a rush. “To—you know...”

He makes the hand gesture again in front of the screen.

MJ frowns, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “What is that? A superhero gang sign? Are you being initiated into a secret society for enhanced individuals? And what happened to your neck? Is that a burn?”

Peter sighs. “Sex, MJ. I’m talking about sex.”

MJ raises her eyebrows. “What kind of sex have you been having lately? I don’t remember you being into anything weird when we—”

“That’s not important,” Peter interrupts impatiently. “I need you to tell me what to do now.”

“Well, that’s easy. Do you want to?”

“Of course I want to,” Peter replies. “You’ve seen that guy—it’s like he was manufactured in a lab for optimal attractiveness. He’s hot and he’d jump in front of a train for me. That’s basically everything I look for in a guy.”

MJ snorts. “Just those two things?”

Peter shrugs. “I mean, yeah, what else is there?”

“Okay,” MJ says, nodding. “Then you should definitely do it.”

“What? No,” Peter replies, aghast. “MJ—you know me. You know better than anyone that I am horny and _extremely_ stupid, and you’re supposed to be my reliable, rational friend who talks me out of this before I regret it forever.”

“Peter, listen to me,” MJ says firmly. “We’re college students—we are _all_ stupid, and horny, and poor. That’s what makes this time of our lives so great and so terrible. You are allowed to do dumb things with zero long-term, actual consequences, just like the rest of us. This is pretty much the last chance you get to do that shit, before we all have to become boring adults with desk jobs and no friends and failed marriages. I know your entire life revolves around Spider-Man and helping other people, but you have to let Peter Parker live a little, too, or you’re gonna go crazy. You deserve this. So go get laid by your super hot roommate right now, or I’ll never forgive you.”

Peter swallows hard. “Okay.”

“Okay,” MJ says. “One more thing before you go—I want you to call me afterward and tell me how it went. Give me all the dirty deets.”

“No, I will not do that,” Peter says indignantly. “Jeez.”

“You’ll tell me eventually,” MJ says confidently. “You tell me everything.”

“It’s not gonna happen, MJ,” Peter says. “Goodbye.”

“Did you get your mommy to sign your permission slip?” Johnny asks when Peter returns to the bathroom, grinning ear to ear.

Peter shuts the door behind him. “Ha. Funny. No, I didn’t, but…” he coughs, looking down at his feet. “I, uh…did bring condoms. So.”

Johnny straightens up so fast he knocks the first aid kit off the vanity, the grin replaced by an almost comically solemn expression. “Oh…like…? You actually wanna…we’re gonna do this?”

Peter nods. “Uh, yeah. Yes. I mean, as long as you think it will be okay.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Johnny says, waving a hand dismissively. “I mean, people do this all the time. It’s just for fun, right?”

“Right."

A long, awkward moment of silence passes, where they both just stand and stare at each other.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to make the first move,” Peter finally says. “I’m not that person. That kiss I gave you? That was like a one-in-a-trillion fluke. My brain glitched or something.”

“Okay. Yeah. No problem. I can do that,” Johnny assures him. He takes a few steps closer, until they’re almost touching. He raises his hands, like he’s going to put them on Peter, and then he hesitates, hands hovering in the narrow space between them.

Peter waits expectantly, his heart racing. He waits a little longer. And a little longer. Finally, he gently but pointedly clears his throat.

Johnny startles, dragging his eyes back up to Peter’s face. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s—I’m having second thoughts, man."

"You are?" Peter asks, crushed. "Why? Did I...what happened?"

Johnny shakes his head. "It's not anything you did...it's just...I'm looking at you now, and you’re like, one giant bruise. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Yeah, I fell out of a building. It’s an occupational hazard. No big deal. It’s fine. You can just...go for it,” Peter assures him. “Please. It’s starting to get weird the longer we stand here.”

Johnny gives a little jerky nod, swallowing. “Okay. Yeah. Sorry, I’ll just—”

He places his hands on Peter’s shoulders.

“Ow,” Peter says immediately, curling away as pain flares his injured shoulder. He takes an automatic step back, his legs catching on the side of the tub, and looses his balance. He grabs at the shower curtain as he falls backwards, and the curtain rod rips loose from the walls and comes crashing down, smashing him on the top of the head.

“Ow,” he says again, sitting sprawled out in the tub and clutching at his head. He looks up at Johnny, blinking back tears. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, no, you are _not_ okay,” Johnny says, shaking his head again, his expression worried. “We really shouldn’t do this right now—we can always try again later, when you heal up?”

“No, no—I’m good. It’s fine,” Peter insists. 

“Peter—”

“Look, if we wait until I’m not injured to do this, it will _never_ happen,” Peter cuts in. “Because tomorrow someone will shoot me, or stab me, or throw me out of a building, and the same thing will happen the day after that, on and on, until I die. I honestly can’t even remember what it feels like to _not_ constantly be in some degree of pain, so don’t even worry about it. I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“ _Peter,_ ” Johnny says softly, his voice breaking.

Peter nods, biting his lip to keep it from quivering, not sure if he’s about to start laughing or crying. “I know. This was supposed to be fun, and now I’ve gone and made it sad and awkward. My life...is sad and awkward, and exhausting, and sometimes…very, very lonely. But you’ve always been really nice to me, and you make me feel less...alone. And you said we’re supposed to look out for each other. So it’d be like…such a bro move if you’d screw my brains out so I don’t have to think about all that for a little while.”

“Peter,” Johnny says again, tenderly, his eyes shining.

“Oh god, _please_ don’t start crying,” Peter begs. “If you start crying, I don’t think we can recover the mood. This is already so, so awkward. Can we just…reset and try again?”

Johnny climbs into the bathtub with Peter. The tub is barely big enough for one person, much less two, and there’s an uncomfortable shift and bump of elbows and knees and limbs until they’re finally settled, squeezed in tight together. 

Johnny runs a finger down the bridge of Peter’s nose, smiling.

“I’m gonna rock your world, you dumb little nerd,” he says.

Peter gives him a watery smile back. “Thanks. You’re a great friend. I really—”

There’s a knock on the apartment door. It’s followed by the grinding sound of the rickety deadbolt being turned.

“Hey, kid, you home?” a voice calls. 

Peter and Johnny both freeze.

“Shit, it’s Mother,” Johnny whispers. “Did you give him a key?”

“No, but why would that stop him from getting in?” Peter whispers back. He scrambles out of the tub and opens the bathroom door a crack, peering out.

Tony is standing in their living room, hands on his hips and shaking his head as he looks down at the dark blood stains Peter had dripped all over the floor.

“Pete, if I find your dead body in here, I’m gonna resurrect it so I can murder you again myself,” Tony calls.

“Shit. _Shit,_ ” Peter whispers, shutting the door and turning to Johnny.

“Man, he picked the worst time to drop by,” Johnny murmurs glumly.

“Yeah. That’s why he’s here,” Peter whispers, yanking at his hair. “He’s got like, a sixth sense for knowing when I’m doing something that I’m not supposed to be doing.”

“Like what?”

“Like _you,_ ” Peter hisses. “He _hates_ you. He will _murder_ you if he finds out what was just about to happen in this bathroom.”

He takes a breath, shaking out his hands. “Okay, okay—stay here. I’ll get rid of him. If you value your life, you will not come out until he’s gone. Got it?”

Johnny throws up an ‘okay’ sign. “Got it.”

Peter takes another steadying deep breath and then slips out through the door, shutting it behind him.

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” he greets with an artificial brightness. “I’m alive. Just…a little bit stabbed. I took care of it myself. It’s all good.”

Tony turns around, frowning at the bandage on Peter’s shoulder. “What have I said about performing do-it-yourself home surgery?”

Peter winces, trying to look small and chastened. “Uh…that if I did it again, you’d staple a dunce cap to my head.”

“That’s right. Lucky for you, I left the dunce cap at home today.” Tony takes a step closer, eyes narrowed. “Why are you breathing so hard?”

“Um, I was…just—” Peter clears his throat—“working out.”

Tony looks him up and down, frowning. “In your underwear?”

Peter looks down at himself, flushing. “Uh, yeah. So what? This is my apartment. Let me live my life.”

Tony takes another step closer. “And what did you do to your mouth? And your neck? You look like you have a rash or a burn or something.”

“I…uhhhh…ate a strawberry. I’m…allergic?”

Tony’s frown deepens. “Since when?”

Peter swallows. “Since...today. Anyway, I’m kinda busy, so—”

“You’re bleeding,” Tony says, grabbing Peter’s head in his hands and tilting it down to take a look.

“Oh, yeah. The shower curtain rod fell and hit me. It’s fine. Doesn’t even— _ow_ —hurt,” Peter says as Tony prods at the split in his scalp.

“Let me get a washcloth and some ice,” Tony offers, starting towards the bathroom.

Peter jumps in front of him. “No! No, no. It’s fine. I’m fine. I heal super fast. You know that.”

Tony looks at him, his eyes narrowing again. “What’s going on? Why are you being…like _this?_ ”

Peter shakes his head, shrugging. “Like what?”

“Cagey. Nervous. Sweaty,” Tony answers, taking ahold of Peter’s arms and peering into his eyes, his expression concerned. “Did you take some drugs?”

“What? No!” Peter splutters. “I wouldn’t—I would _never_ —I don’t even think I can get high. You know, like, if I wanted to. Which I don’t. Because I don’t do drugs. Ever. Or anything…like that. I’m like a monk—you know, just…clean living. Celibate—why would you even think about drugs? You jumped there so fast.”

“ _Pain medication,_ Peter,” Tony clarifies, pointing at the bandage. “I was asking if you took some pain medication for that. I’m concerned you’re having a bad reaction to it. I keep telling your doctors they need to tweak your dosage. You get a little goofy every time you take it lately.”

“Oh. No, I don’t like to take that stuff. Makes me feel like a zombie.”

“Mm,” Tony hums, still frowning. 

Peter is starting to sweat worse. “Anyway…can I do something for you? ‘Cause I got a lot of…other stuff to do. School stuff, and…things.”

Tony shrugs and gestures to a pair of heavily laden shopping bags sitting by the door. “No. Just thought I’d stop by and drop some groceries off for you.”

Peter takes a calming breath. “Okay, I appreciate that, but I don’t need you to buy me groceries. We've talked about this. I have money for food.”

“Really? Because there’s nothing in your kitchen except a single sleeve of stale Ritz crackers and an expired cartoon of milk. I checked.”

Peter can feel his shoulder wound starting to bleed again, just from the increase in his blood pressure.

“The crackers are still edible, and everyone knows that the expiration date on milk is really more of a guideline,” he says with forced patience. “But anyway—I love to see you, Mr. Stark, but it’s getting late, and you probably shouldn’t be in this neighborhood after dark. People see a guy in a thousand-dollar Armani overcoat and a fancy car…I don’t want you to get mugged or something.”

Tony quirks a eyebrow at him. “It’s three in the afternoon. And who the hell is gonna mug Iron Man?”

“You’re retired, remember? And elderly,” Peter says, gently but firmly ushering Tony towards the door. “You’re an easy target.”

“ _Elderly?_ ” Tony echoes.

Peter opens the door and pushes him across the threshold. “I’ll call you later. Love you. Great to see you. Thanks for the groceries. Goodbye.”

“Hey,” Tony interjects, holding an arm out to catch the door as Peter tries to close it. “One last thing—is there a reason some guy keeps calling me and leaving messages yelling about his Elantra?”

Peter winces again, sucking air in through his teeth. “Uh, yeah…I might have made…a _little_ boo-boo on it.”

“Like you scratched the paint, or…”

“Um. Yes. And…shattered the windshield. And smashed the roof…”

Tony sighs. “I’ll take care of it. At the rate you’re going, I’ll replace every vehicle in the city by the end of the decade.”

“Thanks. Did I already say I love you? Because I love you, Mr. Stark. Bye now,” Peter says, shutting the door in Tony’s face.

Peter leans his back against the door, blowing out a long breath before plodding over to the couch, his nerves shot. He drops down onto the lumpy cushion and slumps forward, holding his head in his hands.

“I can’t believe we just got cockblocked by Iron Man,” Johnny says as he comes out of hiding in the bathroom and flops down on the couch next to Peter. “This is simultaneously the coolest and worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Peter just groans into his hands.

“But hey,” Johnny says, nudging Peter with his elbow. “Third time’s a charm, right?”

Peter lifts his head out of his hands to look over at him. “You mean…you still wanna…?”

Johnny flashes him a brilliant, wicked grin.

***

Peter's phone pings again sometime around midnight with a text from MJ.

MJ: _so_  
MJ: _did you do it?_

_Im not telling you_

_but yes_

MJ: _was it good?_

_i said im NOT telling u_

_I know ur writing spiderman fan fiction_

_im not giving u fodder_

MJ: _it’s not fanfic if it’s all true_  
MJ: _it’s more like a serial biography_

_im still not telling you anything_

_but YEAH it was good_

MJ: _nice. are u gonna do it again?_

_NO_

_i might be stupid but im not THAT stupid_

***

It turns out he is that stupid, because they do it again almost immediately. And again. And again. And several more times after that in the weeks that follow, in every room of their apartment and on the rooftop terraces of multiple high-rises around the city. They get a little careless here and there, and photographs that definitely aren’t staged make their way onto the Daily Bugle's website and other internet cesspools. Peter gets long strings of texts and even longer voicemails from Tony that alternate between irate and pleading. Peter immediately deletes all of them.

“I think mind-control must be one of Johnny’s superpowers,” Peter complains to MJ, scratching at a healing burn around his wrist. “I don’t know how this keeps happening.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Peter, I love you, but you are _so_ fucking stupid. It was funny at first, but now it’s just sad. You put so much energy into juggling your identities that you’ve like, lost touch with reality. Go to therapy, please.”

Peter goes home instead and resolves once more to keep his hands (and everything else) to himself, a promise that he breaks almost the second Johnny walks through the door a few days later, looking artfully tousled and travel-stained after battling resurgent Hydra cells on the other side of the world.

“I told you this spot is romantic,” Johnny tells Peter with a grin later on while they share a post-coital joint, perched together again on top of Lady Liberty’s torch.

“Alright, yeah,” Peter grudgingly agrees, shivering. “But it’s still freezing and too windy.”

“You need to stop whining and enjoy your life,” Johnny replies, puffing contemplatively at the joint. “Hey—you think if we exchanged enough jizz that we could like, gain each other’s super powers?”

“Aaaaaand I take it all back. You just killed the romance.”

“I’m just asking, 'cause of the radiation, you know? I thought you were into science stuff like that,” Johnny says, passing the joint over to Peter. He leans against the railing and looks out across the water at the city, then says, “This has been a lot of fun.”

“What?” Peter asks, coughing and waving pungent smoke out of his eyes after a gust of wind blows it back into his face.

“Our whole fake relationship thing,” Johnny replies, turning to face Peter. “I’m gonna miss it.”

Peter looks at him, confused. “Miss it?”

“Well, yeah…you have your Oscorp interview tomorrow morning. I know you only wanted to do this fake PR relationship thing till you landed a steady job.”

“Oh,” Peter says, frowning as the wind blows the cherry out of the joint. “Well…it’s just an interview. I mean, I dunno if I’ll actually get the job, or…and I could always use extra cash, so, we could always…keep the charade going, you know, keep…pretending, or…”

He trails off, still frowning at the unlit joint, a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Johnny leans over, cupping his hand close to Peter’s face. He takes the joint and slips it between Peter’s lips and then leans in even closer, touching his own lips to the other end, like a kiss. When he pulls back a little, a tiny ember burns at the end.

“Sure, we could,” he agrees, his face close to Peter’s. “Whatever you need, Pete.”

Peter gives a minuscule little nod. “Okay…cool.”

Johnny stays where he is, their faces almost brushing together.

“You have really pretty eyes, by the way,” he tells Peter. “The fan artists always draw Spider-Man with blue eyes, but the real deal is a lot better.”

Peter doesn’t know how to respond to that. At a loss for anything else, he offers the joint to Johnny, who takes it and finally sits back once more.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Peter complains again as another gust of wind rips over them, his teeth chattering.

“You are such a big baby,” Johnny replies. He shuffles closer and puts an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and Peter immediately leans into his inviting warmth, watching the city lights glitter across the water.

***

Peter wakes up the following morning feeling like he swallowed a mass of squirming snakes.

He showers and shaves and brushes his teeth, gagging over the sink, and then puts on the dress slacks and button-down he’d carefully ironed and laid out before going to bed last night, determined to actually be on time for something for once in his life.

Johnny’s already in the kitchen, standing at the ancient stove and wearing nothing but boxer shorts and an apron, when Peter emerges from his bedroom.

“Yo, Petey. I made you French toast,” Johnny offers, holding out a plate.

“Aw, thanks, man, but I can’t eat right now,” Peter says. “I’m two seconds away from throwing up from how nervous I am about this interview.”

“Why are you nervous? You got this, Pete,” Johnny assures, fussing over Peter’s collar and smoothing down his hair. “You got that fancy ass Stark internship on your resume and you’re gonna graduate at the top of your class. You just gotta project confidence. You remember what we went over last night?”

“Uh, yeah. Firm handshake—but not _too_ firm, don’t break any fingers. Make eye contact, but don’t be creepy. Avoid nihilistic jokes. And don’t fidget like a meth addict,” Peter recites.

“Perfect. Just one more thing,” Johnny adds, snatching Peter’s backpack out of his hands. “Don’t take the Spidey suit.”

“What? No—” 

“Yep,” Johnny says, jerking the backpack away when Peter makes a grab at it. “This stays here today. The people of New York will survive a couple of hours without Spider-Man.”

“I’m not leaving the suit,” Peter protests, grabbing at the backpack again.

Johnny yanks it away. Flames crawl over his free hand and he holds it threateningly close to the backpack. “Don’t make me do it, Petey. Your ass looks spectacular in this suit—it would be a national tragedy if I had to incinerate it. Think of the fans.”

“I _can’t_ leave it. What if something bad happens?”

“There are millions and millions of people living in this city, Pete. Something bad is always happening to at least one of them, whether you’re in the suit or not,” Johnny says gently. “If you take the suit, you’re gonna feel obligated to get involved. You gotta take care of yourself sometimes, too. ”

Peter bites his lip, and then sighs. “Can I at least take the web-shooters and the mask, just in case?”

“Nope. Sorry, bro, no can do.”

Peter groans, his resistance wilting. “Ugh. Fine.”

“It is fine,” Johnny says, pinching Peter’s cheek. “You’re gonna kill this thing, Pete. You’re gonna land this job and become a corporate drone, slaving away at a desk for that coin, and when you come home I’ll be here waiting for you with dinner on the table and your favorite movie queued up on Netflix, and—wow, do I have a domesticity kink? ‘Cause I’m kinda turned on right now.”

“Everything is your kink,” Peter says, nervously fiddling with his collar. “God, I feel like I’m gonna pass out. This is my last chance at this job, I know it. If I fuck this up, it confirms all of my fears about my adult life being nothing but one disaster after another.”

Johnny smacks Peter’s hand away from his collar and fixes it again. “You’re not gonna fuck it up. You got this, man. You do.”

Peter takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right—I do.”

***

The corporate offices inside the Oscorp building are sleek and trendy with a lot of sterile white surfaces and minimalist art pieces that blend a kind of zen, spa-like ambiance with futuristic design. The glossy elevator deposits Peter and the recruiter out into an open floor centralized around a communal work space that’s surrounded by offices and conference rooms that are all walled off on all sides with sheets of crystalline, transparent glass, like brightly lit human aquariums.

“We just finished remodeling this floor,” the recruiter tells Peter cheerfully as they step off the elevator. “Everything was designed to feel authentic to the Oscorp brand, with dynamic spaces that are human-centric and encourage collaboration and wellness. We have communal tables, quiet pods, brainstorming islands, and flexible activity-based workspaces.”

“It’s…definitely a lotta glass. My friend Michelle would probably refer to it as a Foucauldian corporate internment camp,” Peter offers conversationally.

The recruiter gives him a blank look. 

Peter nervously clears his throat. “I mean…your janitor must go through a lotta Windex. I bet you have to work it into the quarterly budget.”

That gets a little chuckle out of the recruiter.

“I’m really glad we were able to finally find a time that worked for this interview,” he says as he leads Peter into one of the glass-walled conference rooms and gestures for him to take a seat in a ridiculously plush leather rolling chair at the gleaming table. 

“Your resume is one of the best we’ve received from a recent or soon-to-be college graduate,” the recruiter continues, opening a folder and laying Peter’s resume out on the table in front of him. “You’re graduating this May, correct?”

“Uh, yes,” Peter replies. “I mean, that’s the plan, anyway. As long as like, we all don’t die during another alien invasion or world-ending catastrophe. Ha.”

“Of course,” the recruiter says with a polite smile, before he launches off into praising Peter’s various academic and employment-related achievements. 

Peter tries to follow along and make the appropriate affirmative responses where it seems like the recruiter is expecting it, but his attention is immediately divided. He keeps shooting glances through the glass wall behind the recruiter at an enormous holographic digital television display illuminating the far wall in the conference room next to theirs. It’s tuned to a local news station, and something exciting must be happening in the area because a small crowd of Oscorp employees have gathered in the room to watch. Peter peers at the television over the recruiter’s shoulder, frowning as he watches the news camera focus in on a group of people running in a panic down a street.

“You did a years-long internship at Stark Industries,” the recruiter continues. “Very impressive. Any reason why you’re seeking employment here at Oscorp instead?”

“Um,” Peter mumbles distractedly, watching as some kind of giant robotic drone-thing tears through a building. Massive pieces of rubble and glass shards plummet towards the terrified pedestrians crouching on the sidewalk below, but the debris’ fall is abruptly arrested as if caught on an invisible platform hovering above the cowering crowd. The camera quickly pans over and settles on Sue Storm, her face tight with concentration and her arms outstretched as she carefully maneuvers the debris away from the pedestrians. In the background, Ben Grimm punches through another drone while Johnny streaks by like a spear of white hot light and incinerates a third.

Under the table, Peter’s hands clench into tight fists and his knee starts involuntarily bouncing up and down. He looks back to the recruiter.

“Um, just, you know—I want to keep my options open,” Peter answers in a slightly strained tone. “And I’m really interested in the work Oscorp has been doing with genome editing and biochemical engineering.”

That answer seems to satisfy the recruiter, who starts to drone on about Oscorp’s advancements in the biotech industry. Peter is only half-listening again, his attention flickering back and forth between the recruiter and the chaos unfolding on the television screen in the other room. One of the drones comes within inches of swatting Johnny out of the sky, and Peter clenches his jaw so tightly he can hear the bones in his ears grind together, his knee bouncing practically at the speed of light under the table

“Mr. Parker?” the recruiter prompts.

Peter tears his eyes away from the television display, blinking at him. “I’m sorry?”

“I asked when you would be available to start the position if we decided to go through with an offer?”

“Oh. Uhh…actually…I really appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to meet with me,” Peter mumbles, sliding his chair back and getting to his feet. “But I don’t think this is the right fit for me. I’m just gonna…see myself out.”

The recruiter shakes his head, a look of total confusion on his face. “I’m sorry—you’re…you’re leaving?”

“Yep. I’m really sorry. Thanks again,” Peter says with a tight smile, backing out of the room and then turning on his heel and dashing across the communal workspace towards the stairwell, while Oscorp employees dart out of the way and stare after him in shock.

He charges up the stairs six steps at a time, passing floor after floor, until at last he reaches the roof access door, panting and cradling a painful stitch in his side. He kicks the door open and races out onto the rooftop.

“Don’t take your suit, he says. Everything will be fine, he says,” Peter mutters under his breath as he leaps from one building to the next, following the distant sounds of sirens and screams and explosions. “Great advice. Why do I _ever_ listen to that idiot?”

He finally comes to a sliding stop on the roof of a high-rise right in the midst of all the action, hopping up onto the ledge to peer down at the swarm of drones zooming around and blasting lasers like some kind of very violent, very scary light show. He locates Johnny in the chaos, watching as he fries a few drones taking aim at a group of people hiding in the building across from Peter’s perch. Another drone suddenly looms behind him, but Johnny is oblivious as he helps the people escape the building.

“Ugh, this is going to hurt,” Peter groans to himself, before sliding down the side of the building until he’s level with the drone. He launches himself off the building right as the drone fires its laser, throwing himself between the beam and Johnny. The laser catches him in the center of the chest, blasting him out of the air and sending him hurtling towards the ground. He hits the asphalt below hard and tumbles ass over elbows a few turns before slamming to a stop against a parked car. 

He lies there in a dazed heap, wheezing painfully, watching through bleary eyes as Johnny touches down a few yards away and comes racing over to him.

“Holy shit,” Johnny says breathlessly, dropping to his knees next to Peter and sliding an arm under his shoulders, cradling him close and smoothing the hair back from his face. “Holy shit, holy shit…Peter, Pete—are you okay? Say something.”

“Ow,” Peter croaks back.

“Holy shit. You saved me, man. That was _amazing_. I could have died, and you just jumped right in,” Johnny continues, awed. “ _You_ could have died. That drone blasted the _fuck_ outta you, bro. You’re not even wearing your suit.”

“Ow,” Peter says again, dragging himself into a seated position and looking down at the smoldering black circle in the center of his formerly nice white button-down shirt. He plucks at it, wincing as the melted material sticks to his chest. “Aw, dang, this was my only dress shirt.”

“Dude. Peter.” Johnny leans forward and grabs him by the shoulders. “I think I love you.”

Peter winces again as he peels melted plastic buttons off of his sternum, sighing. “Yeah, I know. I love you, too, man.”

“No,” Johnny says. “Like, I think I really _love_ you.”

Something about the way he says it makes Peter stop fussing over his wrecked clothes and look at him. For once, Johnny isn’t grinning like a cocky idiot. His expression is serious. So very serious. Peter feels his stomach do a weird flip-flop thing.

“What?” he asks, his voice cracking.

“I’m in love with you,” Johnny says earnestly.

There’s a small explosion somewhere behind them, but Peter barely registers it. 

“What?” he asks again, dumbly.

“I love you, Peter,” Johnny replies. “I think I’ve been in love with you for like, a long ass time, but I didn’t realize it until we started the whole fake relationship thing, and then we, you know...”

He makes a gesture with his hands.

Peter blinks, shaking his head in confusion.

“ _What?_ ” he asks a third time.

“Pete, did you hit your head?” Johnny asks. He cups his hands around his mouth and practically shouts at Peter. “I said— _I. Love. You. Peter. Parker._ ”

“No. No, no, no—you don’t,” Peter insists, panicking. “This is just...a weird psychological effect, combined with adrenaline—I saved you, and now you _think_ you love me, but it’s not real—it’s damsel in distress syndrome or something, you don’t actually—”

“Shut up,” Johnny tells him, his hands coming up to cup Peter’s face.

Peter leans backwards. “What—what are you doing?”

“I’m gonna kiss you, you idiot,” Johnny says, leaning closer.

“ _What?_ No, you’re n—” Peter starts, but he’s cut off by Johnny mashing their mouths together.

Peter jerks back and punches him, sending him sprawling backwards.

“Ow, dude, what the hell?” Johnny groans, cupping his hands over his face. 

“I should be asking you that,” Peter snaps, standing up. “You can’t just—just _kiss_ me like that. First—it’s sexual harassment, that’s a crime. And secondly—you’re supposed to be dating Spider-Man, remember?”

Johnny lifts his head to glare at him, rubbing his jaw. “ _You’re_ Spider-Man, dipshit.”

“No, I am _Peter Parker,_ dumbass,” Peter retorts, grabbing Johnny by the front of his uniform and hauling him to his feet.

“Look, if people see you kissing Spider-Man, and then they _also_ see you kissing me— _Peter Parker_ me—they’re gonna connect the dots,” Peter hisses at him. “All it takes is _one_ person to start asking questions. My cover gets blown, and I _cannot_ have that happen. I don’t care that you...that you _think_ you’re in love with me or whatever. Your feelings don’t matter.”

A wounded expression flickers across Johnny’s face.

“Okay, well, in that case—I don’t wanna do this fake dating thing anymore,” he says, dabbing at his bleeding nose. 

Peter blinks at him, startled. 

“Are you—are you fake breaking up with me?” he asks, feeling unexpectedly devastated.

“No, I’m fake breaking up with Spider-Man, you dumb little ding dong,” Johnny says, sniffing and pulling away from Peter’s grasp. “See? You can’t even keep it straight.”

He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then adds a little stiffly. “I’m gonna stay with my sister tonight. I think you and I probably need some time apart, too. Me and Peter Parker, I mean.”

Peter flinches again, feeling another wave of devastation wash over him.

“I told you this was going to fuck up our friendship,” he says sulkily. “I _told_ you. I always let you talk me into stupid stuff, and then I regret it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Johnny agrees, sniffing again. “This was pretty stupid.”

Peter blinks at him once more, fighting back the tears that are suddenly burning in his eyes, feeling a little like he just took a shot straight to the heart again.

“Good lord, listen to you idiots,” Sue says, startling both of them as she suddenly materializes right beside them. “The two of you need to go to _real_ couples therapy. But right now—you need to get your ass back in the game, Johnny. We still have a job to do. And you need to go home and get that taken care of,” she adds firmly, turning her attention to Peter and gesturing at the still smoldering circle on his chest. “We’ll handle this here.”

Peter stays where he is, looking at Johnny, waiting for him to make some kind of joke that will brush this whole thing off, so they can have a laugh and go back to the way things were. But Johnny just turns away instead, following his sister back into the fray, leaving Peter standing on the sidewalk amidst all the rubble, hands cupped over the throbbing burn on his chest, feeling very small and alone.

***

He’s still feeling pretty sorry for himself a short time later, sitting on one of the stools in the lab at Tony’s Midtown penthouse, swiveling back and forth in the seat while Tony sits in front of him and plucks burnt shirt fibers and bits of asphalt out of Peter’s blistered skin.

“Can you _please_ hold still and make this a little easier for me?” Tony asks as he squints at Peter through his reading glasses, tweezers poised. 

Peter stops swiveling. “Sorry.”

“Thank you,” Tony says, plucking out another fiber. “How’d your interview go?”

“My what?” Peter asks through clenched teeth, wincing in pain.

“Didn’t you have an interview at Oscorp today? How did it go?”

“Oh. Right. Uh. It went…about as well as could be expected,” Peter replies lamely, starting to swivel again. 

“You think you got the job, then?”

“Uhhh…probably not,” Peter says, swiveling faster. “And I don’t think they’re gonna give me another interview. Like…ever again, for anything.”

“Well. Can’t say I’m too disappointed about that,” Tony says dryly, digging the tweezers into Peter’s sternum with what Peter thinks is unnecessary force.

“Something bothering you?” Tony adds after a few minutes. “Your nervous fidgeting seems particularly intrusive today.”

“Huh? No, I’m good. I’m great,” Peter says, ceasing his swiveling again. “Just extremely caffeinated.”

“Alright,” Tony replies, not sounding particularly convinced. 

Peter repeatedly tries and fails to forcibly hold himself still for the next few minutes while he watches Tony smear some kind of thick, gross unguent across the burn on his chest, until he can’t handle the tension any longer. 

“Actually, Mr. Stark, can I talk to you about something?” he blurts out.

“Sure, kid,” Tony says without looking up. “Talk away.”

“Okay,” Peter says, balling his hands up into fists. “But you gotta promise you won’t get mad first.”

That makes Tony pause and glance up. “It always makes me a little nervous when you lead with that, Pete, but yes—I promise I won’t get mad.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Peter takes a deep breath before getting on with it. “So. Um. Let’s say I have this friend.”

“Uh-huh.”

“A _very_ good friend. And we start, uh...casually seeing each other, but then this friend—they tell me that they love me? Like, _love_ love. But I don’t think I feel the same way about them, and I maybe…was sort of a dick about it when they told me, and now I’m worried I’ve fucked up our friendship, so—what do I do?” Peter asks.

Tony is frowning at him now. “Please tell me this friend is your buddy Ned, or that scary girl you’ve had an on-off thing with? Or one of your classmates? Literally _anyone_ but that reckless dumbass arsonist you live with.”

“Um,” Peter says.

Tony briefly closes his eyes before fixing Peter with a look full of trepidation. “And what do you mean by _casually_ seeing him? Don’t think I didn’t notice that little hesitation before you dropped that. Are we talking coffee dates, or...”

“Um,” Peter says again, his face hot.

Tony’s expression changes from trepidation into something closer to abject fear. “ _Um?_ _Um_ what? Um—”

He makes that gesture with his hands again.

“I _still_ have no idea what that means,” Peter says, exasperated.

“All the more reason why you _shouldn’t_ be doing it,” Tony retorts, wagging a finger at Peter. “That’s what’s going on here, right? Sex? Are we on the same page now?”

“Before I answer that,” Peter says carefully, “I just want to take a moment to remind you that you promised not to get mad."

Tony clutches at his left arm, looking gut-punched. “You—you’re killing me, Peter. I’m an old man with a bad heart, and you are _killing_ me.”

Peter sighs. “Oh my god…just last month you were telling me that I’m too uptight and I need to smoke a little leaf and get laid, and now you’re freaking out about it.”

Tony starts shaking his head. “No. That would be highly irresponsible and inappropriate. That doesn’t sound like something I would _ever_ say to you.”

“ _Yes,_ you did. Those were your _exact_ words—smoke leaf. Get laid.”

“Well, I definitely didn’t mean with _that_ reckless, irresponsible idiot. I knew this was going to happen,” Tony continues, shaking a finger at Peter again for agitated emphasis. “This is why I didn’t want you two moving in together. I told your aunt Johnny’s a bad influence, but she said I needed to let it go, and now here we are. Don’t get me started again on this whole stupid publicity stunt he roped you into.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asks, annoyed now.

Tony runs his hands down his face, sighing. “Pete, buddy—don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve always been very... _suggestible,_ and maybe a _little_ shaky in the confidence department, and you also have a very strong need for approval. And there are people who will exploit that.”

Peter frowns. “What, is that a polite way of saying I’m a naive people-pleaser with garbage self-esteem who lets people take advantage of me?”

Tony makes a face. “I want the record to show that I never used those words, but frankly, yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”

“It wasn’t like that, though,” Peter argues. “You just have this weird irrational hatred for Johnny and you always think the worst about him.”

“Yeah, I am thinking some pretty terrible things about him right now, as a matter of fact.”

Peter yanks at his hair in frustration. “Would you just stop? God! I’m trying to talk to you about something important, and you’re here losing it and making me sound like an idiot, and like—like _slut-shaming_ me.” He stands up, snatching his ruined shirt off the table. “I’m just gonna go. Forget I asked. I’ll talk to May.”

Tony jumps forward to grab him. “Hey, hey, hey! You’re right, don’t leave. I’m overreacting and being a dick.”

Peter reluctantly stays, sniffling. “Yeah, you are.”

“It’s just,” Tony says a little helplessly, “you know, I look at you and I still see this little fifteen-year-old with a twin bed. I don’t want you to get hurt, is all. I forget sometimes that you’re not a kid anymore.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t feel very good at being an adult right now,” Peter admits, rubbing a hand across his eyes. “I feel like I’ve totally lost control of like every aspect of my life.”

“Can I give you some advice?” Tony asks. “Some—relationship advice, borne of decades of experience?”

“You’re not gonna give me a sex talk, are you?” Peter replies, already inching towards the exit again. “‘Cause I had health class in high school and I really don’t wanna talk about it anymore with you. I am _mortified_ right now, and will carry this trauma with me for the rest of my life.”

“Relax. I’m not gonna subject you to that unbearable torture—although, you are using protection, right? I feel morally obligated to ask.”

“Oh my god, yes, okay?” Peter groans, covering his face with his hands. “Now _please_ stop talking about it.”

“Okay, okay. Look…this— _thing_ with your roommate…it’s an awkward spot to be in, yeah,” Tony says. “Why don’t you stay here for a couple of days, let things cool off a little. Then go see him and tell him how you really feel. If he’s the good guy you keep insisting he is, then it’s gonna work out fine.”

Peter blows out a long breath. “Yeah, yeah, you’re right. I should do that. It’ll be okay.”

“Of course I’m right. You just gotta remember—honesty is the key to any kind of successful relationship. So just be honest with him, and it’ll all go a lot smoother,” Tony says. He pauses a moment, and then adds, “And be honest with yourself, too. Really…take a long, deep look there, kid.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Okay?”

Tony pats his shoulder. “Okay. Now let’s go watch a movie so I can disconnect from reality and wash this conversation out of my brain, because it’s giving me like…some major heebie-jeebies or something. The hair on the back of my neck is still standing on end. I’m having heart palpitations.”

“You are seriously not as cool as people think you are,” Peter tells him, following Tony upstairs.

***

Peter is awoken the following morning once again by the sound of his phone buzzing. He cracks an eye open, blinking in momentary confusion until he remembers he’s in Tony’s guest bedroom and not his own apartment, and then fumbles for the phone. He frowns at the screen when he sees Ned’s name displayed on the caller ID.

“Ned?” he mumbles into the receiver. “Is everything okay?”

“Dude, you’re trending on Twitter right now,” Ned says in lieu of a greeting.

“I’m what?” Peter asks groggily. “Why? Did the mayor say he hates Spider-Man again or something?”

“No—Spider-Man isn’t trending, _you_ are. Peter Parker. You and Johnny.”

“What?” Peter bolts upright, his heart-rate spiking. “How? _Why?_ ”

“There’s a video of—hang on, I’ll send it.”

A shaky video pops up on the phone’s screen, of yesterday’s drone attack in Midtown. The camera focuses for a minute on a drone shuddering and sparking as it’s pummeled by Ben’s stony fists. Then the camera lurches off to the side, finally zooming in Johnny kneeling on the sidewalk next to Peter. Whoever is taking the video is too far away to capture audio of what they’re saying—that is, until Johnny cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, clearly and audibly, _“I love you, Peter Parker,”_ into Peter’s stunned, blank face, before leaning forward to kiss him, at which point the video abruptly cuts off.

Peter continues to stare at his phone’s screen even after the video ends, a wave of nausea and horror rising up from deep down in his gut.

“Oh no,” he says, collapsing back onto the bed. “Oh no. Oh no.”

“Peter, are you alright?” Ned asks worriedly.

“I think I’m gonna barf,” Peter says faintly. “This is…this is…so, so bad. Oh my god. Ned, please—I need you to get on a train right now and come here and kill me. I’m begging you. You’re my best friend. It’s your duty to smother me to death.”

“It’s not… _that_ bad,” Ned tries, but Peter cuts him off.

“It _is_ that bad,” he insists, practically hyperventilating now. “Ned, this is it—I’ve been publicly outed.”

“Yeah, that’s not cool, but like, at least people are way chiller about that these days, right?”

“No, Ned—I mean I’ve been outed as _Spider-Man,_ ” Peter snaps. “I don’t care what people think about me—I care about _you,_ and _May,_ and _MJ,_ and anyone else who I've had any kind of close contact with. This could _seriously_ fuck up your lives. Someone might try to—”

He cuts himself off, unable to even bring himself to complete the sentence, overwhelmed with terror and guilt at the prospect.

“I mean…it’s not _explicitly_ stated that you and Spider-Man are one in the same,” Ned tries again, although his voice sounds a little weak. “And you know, Johnny kinda has a reputation for getting around, fairly or unfairly…”

Peter presses his hands against his eyes and takes a few steadying deep breaths. 

“Shit. Okay…okay, maybe you’re right,” he says, clinging to a desperate, fragile hope. “I just...gotta fix this before it gets too crazy. How many people have seen this video?”

“Uh…like…several million, going by how often it’s been shared…”

“ _Several million?_ ” Peter repeats shrilly, his heart sinking. “Like... _multiple_ millions of people?”

“Yeah...”

“Oh my god,” Peter groans, before launching himself out of bed. “Ned—lock your doors and don’t talk to anyone, okay? Except MJ—let her know what happened. And call May for me, too. I gotta go.”

He nearly takes the bedroom door off its hinges as he rushes out of the room and sprints down the hallway. He bursts into the living room and skids into one of the sofas, knocking it over in his haste.

Tony, sitting in the armchair across from the overturned sofa with a cup of coffee in hand and his feet propped up on the ottoman, looks at Peter from under raised eyebrows.

“Well, good morning, sunshine,” he says, taking a sip of coffee. 

“Mr. Stark…I have…a _huge_ problem,” Peter pants, righting the sofa. “My secret identity has been…potentially compromised.”

Tony frowns. “What are you talking about? What happened?”

Peter fumbles for his phone, finding the video Ned sent him. He gives the phone to Tony and then stands there anxiously wringing his hands while Tony watches the video.

The video ends, and Tony looks up at Peter, a carefully neutral expression on his face. “Pete…you know I don’t like to say I told you so, but—”

Peter cuts him off, scoffing. “Yes, you do. You _love_ to say that. My life is collapsing, and you are _relishing_ this moment. I need you to stop gloating and _fix this_.”

“Of course, buddy.” Tony sets the phone and the coffee cup down on the side table, and then reaches out and gently folds Peter’s hands in his own. “You want me to kill him for you?”

Peter lets out an exasperated noise. “Can you _please_ be serious for like two whole seconds? My friends’ lives are in potential danger.”

“I am being serious.” Tony points towards the ceiling. “I have satellites up there loaded with armed drones. I give the word, and that idiot will be nothing more than a grease-stain on the sidewalk.”

“You— _what?_ ” Peter shakes his head. “No, I don’t want you to kill anyone—especially not one of closest friends. Can’t you like, I dunno—wipe the video from the internet before it spreads any further?”

“Listen, even _I_ can’t bring the feral wilds of the internet to heel,” Tony says. “I’m a father now—you think my sex tapes would still be circulating out there if I could?”

Peter recoils, shuddering. “Mr. Stark, I am— _begging_ —you, please stop bringing that up. I don’t want that image in my brain. Can we just focus on the problem at hand, and come up with a real solution that doesn’t involve you pointlessly murdering Johnny?”

“I really don’t understand. I mean, what do you even see in this guy, aside from the obvious superficial stuff?” Tony asks. “Is he really that good of a lay?”

“I _said_ I’m not gonna talk to you about that stuff,” Peter splutters. “And it’s not about that, anyway.”

“So what is it about? Explain it to me, please.”

“I dunno!” Peter says, throwing his hands up. “I know you think he’s a vapid, reckless idiot, and yeah, he kinda is. But he’s also nice, and I can talk to him about this superhero stuff and he’s the only one of friends who actually _really_ gets it. Spider-Man has sabotaged like _every_ relationship I’ve had, but Johnny—he doesn’t care that I’m super unreliable and my life is total chaos, or that I regularly bleed all over our shared furniture, or that I’m always late with rent. I don’t have to…to hide things from him, or lie, or feel guilty when I can’t meet expectations. And it’s just...nice, you know? To feel like...you do all this crazy, dangerous shit, and you come home and there’s this person you’ll _always_ feel safe with, no matter what, and I love that about him, I love—”

Peter cuts himself off as the realization suddenly sets in, looking at Tony. “Oh. Oh, nuts. I am... _so_ stupid.”

“Yeah,” Tony agrees, nodding. “That’s what I’ve been telling you all along, Pete. You are a brilliant, emotionally-stunted dumbass. Welcome to the club. Luckily for you, you’ve come to this realization at an early age, so you can get a head start on working to improve yourself and fix it.”

Peter frowns. “Fix it? What do you mean?”

Tony stands up and grabs Peter’s shoulders. “It deeply pains me to say this, but your happiness is extremely important to me, so—I’m saying you should go back home right now, and you should look that big handsome moron in the eye, and you should tell him how you _really_ feel.”

“I can’t,” Peter insists. “It’s not like being with some random person, which is hard enough already. He’s a superhero—a _very_ famous superhero, with hordes of crazy obsessed fans who follow his every move. The whole Spider-Man thing only works if Peter Parker is completely boring and normal— _so_ boring and _so_ normal that no one would ever suspect he’s Spider-Man, despite a whole bunch of weird coincidences tying them together. It’s like Clark Kent and Superman—they look _exactly_ the same except for a pair of glasses, but because Clark is a boring doofus from Bumblefuck, Kansas, no one even notices. _That_ is the level of unassuming that I aspire to as Peter Parker. Dating a celebrity superhero would be an invitation for disaster.”

“Okay, the way you talk about yourself in the third person like you’re a parasitic alien entity inhabiting your victim’s body is a little disturbing,” Tony says. “You’re not playing a character in a movie. This is your _life,_ kid.”

“It’s not just my life, though," Peter replies. "It’s May’s life, and my friends’ lives.” 

He presses his hands to his eyes, sighing. “I knew it was a bad idea to—to get involved like that. I even tried to get MJ to talk me out of it, but she told me I should go for it because we’re young and we’re supposed to do stupid shit that doesn’t have any consequences. But that’s not true for me. _Everything_ I do has consequences. And if it’s a choice between my happiness and protecting the people I care about, then it’s not a choice at all.”

“Those people you care about—May and Michelle and Ned. _Me_ —we care about you, too. And they understand the danger. If the risk wasn’t worth it to them, they could jump off the ride at any time. But they haven’t." Tony squeezes Peter's shoulders. "Look, if I _promise_ you right now that I can fix this little hiccup with the video, will you at least give it a shot? We’re all rooting for you. Even me, grudgingly. If you want this, then you should go for it. If Pepper and I can mostly keep our private life private, then you can make it work, too—just lay down some ground rules, keep a low profile. It’ll be fine.”

Peter looks at him, worrying his lip with his teeth. “How are you gonna fix it?”

“Just trust me. I have a lot of experience with seizing the narrative of scandalous stories before they can spiral out of control,” Tony assures him. “You can call me Doctor Spin.”

Peter takes a long, slow inhale, chewing the inside of his cheek as he wrestles with indecision.

“I’m not gonna call you that, but I do trust you,” he decides.

Tony claps him on the shoulder. “You let me handle everything, kid. Now, before you go proclaim the mushy-gushy contents of your heart—can I give you one last bit of relationship advice to help you with your dumb arsonist, since you’re finally listening to me?”

“Yeah?” Peter cautiously replies.

“If you’re using a water-based lubricant, switch to silicone. Trust me on this, too—it will change your life, bud.”

“Gah!” Peter says, overturning the sofa again as he scrambles to escape. “Stop that! Don’t say anything else! I’m leaving right now.”

***

Peter rides the subway back to his side of town, and then walks the rest of the way to his apartment building, feeling once again like he's swallowed a nest of wriggling snakes as he plots out what he intends to say to Johnny in his mind. He's a little bit relieved now that he doesn't have the Spidey suit with him—it means that he has no choice but to do this thing as nobody but himself, not hiding behind any masks.

He’s trotting up the stairs to the building’s main entrance when he hears his name being shouted.

“Hey, Pete!”

Peter turns, watching as Johnny drops out of the sky onto the sidewalk. He takes a few steps towards Peter and then stops, offering him a tentative smile.

“Hey,” Johnny says again. “You didn’t come home last night. Are you okay?”

“Yeah—I’m fine. I stayed at Mr. Stark’s place, is all,” Peter replies. “I thought you were gonna stay with your sister? You know, ’cause…you said you wanted time away from me.”

Johnny shrugs. “I changed my mind. I was worried about you. And...I wanted to apologize. For...you know. And then kissing you. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you like that. I just got caught up in the moment, I guess.”

“It’s okay. I overreacted. And I’m sorry I punched you. That was a dick move.” Peter clears his throat, looking down at his feet for a moment before forcing himself to look Johnny in the eye. “Did you...mean it? I mean...do you still...feel that way about me?”

“Yeah, I did. I do. I think about you like, _all_ the time, Peter,” Johnny replies, his expression serious again. He looks away for a moment, briefly clenching his jaw, then adds, “But, uh...if you just wanna be friends, with or without benefits...I can live with that, too. I just...I don’t wanna stop caring about you, however you’ll let me.”

“No.”

Johnny’s face falls. “Oh. Okay. I’ll just...stay with my sister, I guess…Sorry…”

“No, no—I mean, I _want_ to be friends,” Peter amends quickly. “I want to be...more than friends—a _lot_ more than friends. I, uh….I have feelings for you, too. Like, um… _feelings_ feelings...like, I think I love you, too? I do...and—wow, oh boy, I had this planned out a lot smoother on my way over here, and it’s just...collapsing into awkwardness. Um. What I’m trying to say is, that I’d like to…that maybe we could…you and I—Peter Parker, I mean…we could—”

“Yes,” Johnny says, his smile reappearing like the sun parting clouds. “Yeah. We could.”

Peter blows out a long breath, relieved. “Oh. Well, thank you. Did I just thank you? I meant like, I’m really glad that you want to be with me, ‘cause I really want to be with you, too. For real, this time.”

“So can I kiss you now?” Johnny asks, climbing up the stairs. He stops a step below Peter, so that they’re standing at a height with each other, and leans forward, grinning. “Seal the deal?”

Peter puts a hand on Johnny’s chest, stopping him. “Hold on. If we’re gonna do this and make it work, there’s gotta be some rules. It’s gotta be _strictly_ kept out of the public eye. I need to stay your boring roommate that no one cares about or pays attention to, so no Instagram posts or whatever.”

Johnny instantly grimaces, biting his lip. “Ah. Yeah…we can definitely do that, but…I wish you’d told me like ten minutes earlier.”

Peter frowns. “Why?”

Johnny grimaces again, before looking upwards.

Peter looks up, too. Floating above the city in huge, blazing scarlet letters are the words **I LOVE P.P.**

Peter fixes Johnny with a stone-faced glare. “ _Seriously?_ ”

“Yeah, in hindsight—not a great idea,” Johnny says, rubbing the back of his neck. “My Twitter mentions are nothing but golden shower jokes now. Sorry. I was trying to make, you know, a grand gesture of love in an—I now realize, _misguided_ —attempt to woo you.”

“Johnny, you do something like that again, and I’m gonna k-word you,” Peter threatens.

“Kiss?” Johnny says hopefully.

“No. The _other_ k-word,” Peter replies. “The bad one.”

“Implying that kiss—as in kissing yours truly—is the good one,” Johnny says with a wink and a grin.

“I’m gonna punch your teeth through the back of your skull,” Peter says flatly.

“You can’t even say the word 'kill.' Sorry if I’m not especially intimidated by your threats,” Johnny says with another grin, pinching Peter’s cheek.

Peter sighs heavily. “Okay, whatever. One more thing—you and me gotta breakup. I mean, you and Spider-Man me. Spider-Man just needs to be Spider-Man, you know? Good press, bad press—it doesn’t matter. That’s not why I’m doing this. I’ll figure out some other way to pay rent, I promise.”

“Don’t sweat it. I happened to hear that Reed is looking for a new research assistant, and I know just the guy to recommend to him. And I’m fine with breaking up with Spider-Man,” Johnny says, his eyes gone soft and his smile earnest. “I might be Spider-Man’s biggest fan, but I fell in love with Peter Parker.”

Peter returns his smile, feeling that funny swoopy feeling in his stomach again. He glances around the mostly empty street before stepping closer to Johnny.

“Okay, fine, you can kiss me,” Peter tells him. “A quick one. And then maybe, uh...we can go inside, and—in an official capacity this time—we can, you know—”

He makes a hand gesture.

Johnny looks at him from under raised eyebrows. “Okay, I still don’t know what that hand thing means, but _god,_ I’m so excited to find out.”

“It means I want you to plow me into the next universe, in a tender, loving boyfriend kind of way that satisfies both my physical needs and my deep longing to feel safe and supported in the midst of the dangerous chaos that is my life,” Peter explains matter-of-factly.

“Ohhhhh! A loving, supportive plowing—I am definitely the man for that job. You got it, chief,” Johnny replies with a brilliant grin and a sloppy salute, before pressing an eager kiss to Peter’s mouth.

***

Peter is awoken for a third time the following morning by his phone buzzing. He groans unhappily, disentangling himself from the sheets and Johnny’s sleep-heavy limbs, fumbling for the phone and squinting at the screen.

 _this is the funniest fucking thing I’ve ever read,_ a text from MJ states, accompanied by a link to an article on the Daily Bugle.

Peter opens it. He reads it, his jaw dropping in shocked outrage. 

“What the _hell?_ ” 

“What’s that?” Johnny mumbles, cracking an eye open to watch Peter spring out of bed. “Where are you going?”

“I gotta go murder Tony Stark,” Peter says darkly, yanking on a pair of jeans.

***

He finds Tony in the kitchen of his penthouse, eating breakfast at the island and scrolling through emails on his phone. Peter marches up next to him, glaring.

“Hey, kiddo, you're up early. What’s new?” Tony greets without looking up, still scrolling through his emails. "You get things worked out with your idiot roommate?"

“Is my life a joke to you?” Peter asks, fuming.

“Your life is very dear and precious to my heart, Petey,” Tony replies around a mouthful of toast.

Peter scoffs. “Then _why_ are you punishing me like this?”

Tony finally looks up over the rim of his reading glasses at Peter. “I really have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _This,_ ” Peter says, shoving his phone under Tony’s nose. “This article. Is this your idea of helping me?”

“Hm,” Tony hums, reading the article.

“Is this seriously how you’re gonna spin this?” Peter continues. “By turning this into a cheating scandal? You made me the other man in my own relationship. My fake boyfriend is cheating on me—with _me._ Some lady just recognized me on the train over here and called me a homewrecker. People have been sending me death threats over social media.”

“Hey, you wanted the publicity, right? This will definitely keep Spider-Man in the news, and your precious secret identity remains safe. Sounds like a win-win to me,” Tony says as he scrapes more butter across his toast.

“Okay, but—what about all your talk about ground rules and keeping my name— _Peter Parker_ —out of the media?”

Tony waves a hand. “People have the attention span of a gnat these days. Lay low and this will blow over in a week. You said yourself you’re used to bad publicity.”

“Yeah, as _Spider-Man._ It’s a lot different when it’s your name and face plastered under the bad headlines, you know?”

“Kid, look who you’re talking to. Of course I know,” Tony says around another mouthful of toast. “You need to look on the bright side—public sympathy for Spider-Man is at an all-time high right now. He’s the victim of this story. People are outraged on his behalf and rallying around him in support, just like you’d hoped when you decided to do this dumb stunt.”

“You are evil,” Peter says flatly.

“I’m just trying to help you, Pete,” Tony says innocently. “Which reminds me—I know your little flirtation with Oscorp didn’t go the way you were hoping, so I arranged an interview for you with one of my guys in the Science and Tech department at SI. Don’t give me any grief about nepotism, I don’t want to hear it—”

“Thanks, but I don’t need the interview,” Peter interrupts. “I already got a job.”

Tony frowns. “You did? Where?”

“At the Future Foundation. I’m gonna be Reed Richards’ new research assistant.”

“ _Reed Richards?_ ” Tony echoes, spraying crumbs across the countertop. “ _That_ pompous asshole? You’re gonna pick him over me? Where is your sense of loyalty? Listen, after _everything_ I’ve done for you...”

“Oh god, here we go again,” Peter mutters, reaching for a piece a toast.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on tumblr as groo-ock


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